


come down from your holy mountain

by QueenWithABeeThrone



Series: i wanna scream "I LOVE YOU" from the top of my lungs. [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Actor Eddie Kaspbrak, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Epistolary Elements, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Hollywood, M/M, Past Substance Abuse, Pining, Reunion, Romance On The Set, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Supernatural Elements, Writer Richie Tozier, during the 27 years, magic clown amnesia, nonsympathetic myra portrayal, terfs dni, the clown still exists unfortunately, various crossover cameos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 102,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25122535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone
Summary: Richie looks up from his phone, just in time to watch Eddie walk off the set and drop into the seat next to him. “That seemed hard,” he says, quietly.“Eh, not really,” says Eddie, dabbing at his tears with some tissue. The hypoallergenic stuff they use on babies, if Richie recalls correctly. “It’s called acting, you should try it sometime.”“Nah, I’ll just stick to writing,” says Richie. “Seems like too much work.”Richie Tozier's a writer with a Netflix show that needs a lead actor. Eddie Kaspbrak's an actor looking to revitalize his career after a rut. When Eddie gets the role on Richie's show, sparks fly between the two of them, and the two men quickly strike up a close friendship. That should be that.Except Richie's starting to think maybe his feelings about Eddie aren't entirely platonic. Or professional.And unbeknownst to the two of them, they're just a year away from the phone call that will change their lives forever.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: i wanna scream "I LOVE YOU" from the top of my lungs. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893640
Comments: 126
Kudos: 203
Collections: Richie/Eddie Bigbang 2019





	1. 2015 - I.

**Author's Note:**

> title is from Fall Out Boy's "Bob Dylan".
> 
> thank you to [Elis](https://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/) for the art! it's all SO BEAUTIFUL. thank you also to Pie and Syn for betaing this for me, and for the Reddie Bang server and the cool kids server for supporting this insanely huge labor of love!
> 
> this thing has been in production for just over six months, from December 2019 to June 2020. it started as me wondering what would happen if you swapped the Losers' fame levels around, making Richie, Bev, Bill and Ben the relative unknowns while Eddie, Stan and Mike became famous for varying reasons. it mutated, as you will soon see. while this story is, by itself, meant to be a standalone, it ends before the trip to Derry because of time constraints, and so Derry will be coming soon as a sequel to this fic.
> 
> but first, I want to take the time to say: thank you guys so much for taking a chance on this story! I hope you'll enjoy it.
> 
>  **content warnings:** allusions to past alcohol and substance abuse, past abusive and toxic relationships, ex-spouse tries to forcibly out someone who doesn't even realize they're gay, mentions of murder and death (of adults and minors), canon-typical horror imagery, canon-typical levels of off-color humor.

_So what fates do we share?  
Windows down, wind in your hair  
Baby, no one ever thinks of you, no one ever thinks of you  
As much as I do, not, not even you._  
\- “Bob Dylan”, Fall Out Boy

_We used to say,  
That’s my heart right there._

_As if to say,  
Don’t mess with her right there._

_As if, don’t even play,  
That’s a part of me right there._

_In other words, okay okay,  
That’s the start of me right there._

_As if, come that day,  
That’s the end of me right there._

_As if, push come to shove,  
I would fend for her right there._

_As if, come what may,  
I would lie for her right there._

_As if, come love to pay,  
I would die for that right there._  
\- Willie Perdomo, “That’s My Heart Right There”

The first time Richie hears Eddie Kaspbrak’s name, it’s over his car radio during one of his favorite podcasts’ latest episodes.

“Are you gonna let the audience in on who we’re talking to?” Joe Dante asks, half-laughing as Richie parks his car, easing it into what feels like the narrowest fucking parking space in fucking LA.

“Yeah, it’s been like four minutes,” says a new voice, faster-paced than the other two, and Richie’s breath catches in his throat. “What kinda show are you running here?”

“Sorry, sorry,” says Josh Olson, as the intro theme starts to play, “this week we’ve got Eddie Kaspbrak in the studio!”

It’s only the _thud_ of Richie’s car colliding with the wall behind it that snaps him out of his reverie. “ _Shit_ ,” says Richie, and slams his foot down on the brake, shoving the gearshift forward so he can roll forward. “What the fuck was _that_ all about?” he mutters, easing down on the brake.

He’s finally parked when Eddie Kaspbrak says, “Yeah, I got the main role for this new show, uh, _Night Shift_?” 

Thank fucking god, because that’s _Richie’s_ show—sure, he’s not the showrunner, but his name’s first on most of the scripts, and he’s credited as the creator. Shit, the producers and the casting director Ilse were still discussing the shortlist when Richie had gone on vacation, he hadn’t known they’d already cast at least one person. 

“It’s a horror comedy show, kind of like _What We Do In The Shadows_ but sans the mockumentary aspect.”

Richie turns the radio off after that, and tugs his phone out and checks his e-mails. Sure enough, there’s an e-mail from Veronica Sawyer, the actual showrunner, just the day before. Richie had been in Hawaii with his phone turned off. **Found Him,** the subject line reads.

“Found him, all right,” Richie says to himself, turning off the engine. “Who the fuck even is this guy?”

A Google search yields some answers to that question, at least: Edward Kaspbrak’s a big-shot actor whose name’s been attached to a fuckload of movies and shows over the years, some of which have managed to win awards. Richie blinks in shock at the names of some of the movies—he’d been the script doctor for a couple of these, surely he’d remember this Eddie guy, right? And a guest role on _CSI_ during Richie’s last year working as a staff writer there? 

He would’ve _noticed_ him. Right? Big brown eyes, a face like that, Richie’s only looking at a picture on Wikipedia and he’s already pretty damn sure he could pick him out of a line-up. Only, his filmography just...slows down, after 2013. Two years ago. All Richie can see is voice work and smaller parts on TV shows.

He scrolls down to check the “Personal life” tab and winces. Married once, to a 90s scream queen, and then _messily_ divorced. There’s—a _lot_ of detail about their marriage and its breakdown, the divorce that came afterwards and the allegations flung at each other from both sides. No wonder this Kaspbrak guy didn’t manage to get good work for two years. Richie’s show must be the first lead role he’s caught in a while.

Google doesn’t answer the biggest question that Richie has: why is he only hearing about this guy just now?

He stuffs his phone back into his pocket, picks up his now-cool coffee, heads out of the car and into work.

\--

“Hey, shithead,” says Veronica at the head of the table when Richie walks into the writers’ room, “did you get my e-mail?”

Richie knocks his knuckles against her shoulder, and says, fondly, “Get the fuck out of my chair, shortbus.”

“I’m the showrunner,” says Veronica, flashing him the middle finger. “I’m higher on the pecking order than you are. Technically this is _my_ chair.” She gets out of the chair anyway, and he lets her steal the coffee right out of his hand. “Well, did you?” she asks, pulling up a seat near the head, tucking dark strands of hair behind her ear. From the neck down she looks as put together as always, not a thread out of place on her smart pantsuit, but her hair’s a haphazard mess barely tied back by a blue scrunchie.

“Yeah, I just got it,” says Richie, with a huff. Maybe they should be more professional than this, but he and Veronica were roommates long before they first worked together, and when you’ve had someone hold your hair back when you’ve puked your guts up in the toilet, professionalism just kind of evaporates. “Jesus, Ronnie, you know I was in Hawaii.”

“Hawaii’s not the North Pole,” Veronica points out. “You still get a signal out there.”

“Yeah, but it was my mom’s birthday,” says Richie. “You know she gets annoyed with me when I bring workplace shit with me.”

“You could’ve just ducked out,” says Veronica.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” says Richie, propping his chin up with the heel of his palm. “Cast anybody else so far, or just Topher?”

“Just Topher so far,” Veronica confirms. “Ilse and I are in talks with Tracie Thom, though, and you should definitely show up to that one. I’ve got a good feeling about her.”

“I’ll pencil that into my busy schedule,” says Richie dryly.

The door swings open again, and again, and again, the writing staff filling up the room a person at a time. One writer, a short young woman wearing a grey hoodie, triumphantly waves a box of Krispy Kreme donuts around before placing it reverently down on the center of the table. Richie, with his long hours of experience in the writers’ room, knows damn well it’s not going to last.

“All right,” he says, over the din of conversation, “all right, hey, assholes! Everybody here?”

“Francine’s sick,” calls one of the junior staff writers. “She’s texting me suggestions, though.”

“Oh, good, for a minute I was worried we’d have to dive into conspiracy theory boards ourselves,” says Richie, and grins as the other writers snicker and giggle. “Thank fucking god for Francine. Hope she gets better soon. Now, anybody else?” Richie glances around the room, surveying the staff. Save for their missing conspiracy theory buff, it looks like everyone’s here. Hell, there’s even a couple of new faces, who must've been hired while he was in Hawaii. “Great. Most of you know who I am already, but for the new guys, I’m Richie Tozier, and I’m the head writer. That means I’m your dad now.”

“You’re a shitty dad!” someone shouts.

“Well, hey! Don’t publicize it like that,” says Richie, putting a hand over his heart. “Listen, we’ve got a lot to do today, we gotta pitch and then put together ten episodes into a coherent first season with fucking— _themes_ and _character development_. And we gotta make all that funny without turning this show into a sketch comedy.” 

He tugs his index cards and tape out of his bag and scribbles down the main cast names onto the whiteboard: Topher, Cassie, Jack, Ezra and Nancy. Then he tapes the index cards under their corresponding character, and turns to the staff. 

“These are the character arcs for this season,” he says. “Backstories, motivations, relationships, traits, goals that we have for the character, all there. They’re not set in stone, of course, but they’re a good start—”

The door pushes open, and the most beautiful man in Hollywood walks inside. Leather jacket, little bit of a beard, warm brown eyes. He’s older than his picture on Wikipedia, but there’s no mistaking him.

“Hi,” says Eddie fuckin’ Kaspbrak. “Uh, is this the writer’s…room…” His voice trails off and fixes on Richie, which is just fine—no, scratch that, it’s not fine at _all_. 

Richie is vaguely aware that he’s _staring_ at him, but he can make an excuse, he usually doesn’t expect the actors to come in on the first fucking day. They haven’t even cast the other characters yet.

“Yeah, it is!” chirps a junior writer, blatantly ogling Eddie Kaspbrak. “You’re just in time.”

“He’s late, we’re almost out of donuts,” says a staff writer.

Richie can’t take his eyes off Eddie. God only really knows why. Certainly the man’s attractive, but Richie’s met hot guys before and he’s never felt like this, like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump. He has to step back. He has to walk away or else his skull will split and spill his brains out on the bottom of the canyon. His metaphors are running away on him.

Veronica’s voice cuts right through the fog, her tone clipped: “Mr. Kaspbrak, this is a surprise. We weren’t expecting you right now.”

“I like to see what the writers are up to,” Kaspbrak says. “Get a sense of my character from here.”

“In a writer’s room?” Veronica asks.

A junior writer snorts.

Richie shakes his head, and says, “Not much sense to get right now, we’re still working on the pilot script.” They have been for a while, turning Richie’s ridiculous collection of dick jokes with a backdrop of supernatural bullshit into something that can actually be shown on TV, or at least on Netflix, and these days that’s close enough that it makes no real difference. “I’m Richie, by the way,” he adds, holding his hand out for Kaspbrak to shake.

“Eddie Kaspbrak,” says Kaspbrak, as professional as Richie expected him to be. “I liked your script. Although I definitely could’ve done without all the jokes about fucking someone’s mom. Just—doesn’t seem right to the character.” Then he goes very still, his eyes going wide like he didn’t expect _that_ to come out of his mouth.

The entire room goes very, very quiet. The only sound is one of the junior writers slowly opening a bag of potato chips.

Richie lets go of Kaspbrak’s hand, grins like a shark. “Oh, really?” he says. “‘Cause he’s the type of person who’d make that joke. He’s a giant asshole.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” says Kaspbrak, relaxing, “but if you’re trying to make him seem witty, I gotta say, ‘your mom’ jokes are the absolute lowest form of comedy. They’re just too _easy_.”

“Funny,” says Richie, then, because his mouth has always had a habit of running away from him, he adds: “I don’t recall your mom saying so when we were in bed last night.”

A potato chip falls onto the table.

Veronica grabs Richie’s arm and says, “We need to talk.”

\--

“I cannot _fucking_ believe you,” says Veronica in the parking lot, pinching the bridge of her nose and letting go of her death grip on Richie’s arm. 

Richie rubs his hand over his bicep, then perches on the hood of his car, trying very hard to keep the neutral expression on his face and not, like, break out into hysterical laughter or some shit. 

“Seriously? What the fuck, Tozier? Your first meeting with the guy and you tell him you _fucked his mom_?”

“I was nervous!” says Richie. “You know my mouth runs away on me when I get nervous, Ronnie.”

“You giant fucking asshole,” Veronica fumes, her fingers digging into her scalp as she paces, “at least _pretend_ you grew up!” She pauses, then whips around, her eyes wild. “Why were you even nervous?” she asks. “You’ve got to have met the guy at least once before, he was on some of the shows you worked on around the same time you were, right?”

“Surprisingly, no, we’ve never met,” says Richie, only—even to his own ears that sounds like a lie. There’s just something about Kaspbrak that pulls the shitty teen out of Richie, and while it isn’t hard to do that, usually he manages to keep a lid on it on the first meeting. Usually. “I swear to god I have no idea what the hell came over me.”

“Well, figure it out and put a stop to it!” Veronica says, jabbing her finger into his chest. “You’re my friend and I love you, but I can’t produce this show if the main actor drops the fuck out because you couldn’t stop being a _dickbag_ —”

“I’m not dropping out,” says Kaspbrak behind them, and the both of them whip around in shock to see him blinking, almost owlishly, at the two of them. “Uh. Hi?”

“What are you doing out here?” Veronica asks, clapping a hand over Richie’s mouth. Smart girl. Richie can feel the shitty teen coming on already, and therefore refrains from his usual response of licking her palm to see her reaction.

“Your writers ganged up on me and said I should go talk to their shitty pseudo-dad,” says Kaspbrak. “Which, man, there is so much that’s wrong with that I don’t even know how to unpack it—fuck, sorry.”

Veronica bristles, takes her hand off Richie’s mouth and says, “Listen, Mr. Kaspbrak—”

“Technically,” says Richie, breaking in and unable to keep himself from stopping for the love of god, his show, and Veronica Sawyer, “I’d be your shitty stepdad.”

“Fuck _you_ , dickweed,” says Kaspbrak, bristling. “I was yours first.”

Veronica looks between the both of them, betrayed dismay written clear across her face. “Jesus, it’s like I’m working with twelve-year-olds,” she says, scrubbing a hand over her eyes. “What did you want to talk about, Mr. Kaspbrak?”

“I was gonna say, I’m sorry for how unprofessional I was,” says Kaspbrak, polite, shrinking a little as if shocked back into reality by Veronica’s voice. Fuck. That’s right. This is his first real job in two years, the first lead role he’s been able to grab.

“You’ve met me and the other writers,” says Richie, clapping Kaspbrak on the shoulder. “I am the fucking _picture_ of unprofessional, you’re in good company.”

“Goddammit,” mutters Veronica. “God. Can you guys at least promise me that it’s not gonna fuck with the show? Please.”

“I promise,” says Kaspbrak, seriously. “I’m—fucking grateful for this opportunity, Veronica, I mean it. I can be professional working with him.”

“I’ll be as professional as possible,” says Richie. “Considering I’m courting his mom.”

Kaspbrak glares at him and slugs his arm, and Richie exaggeratedly whines in pain, rubbing at the spot where Kaspbrak’s knuckles smacked against his shoulder. God, the guy hits harder than Richie thought he would, really. 

“Fuck off,” says Kaspbrak.

\--

**_Night Shift_** is an upcoming American police procedural/supernatural horror comedy series created by Richie Tozier. It is set to premiere on Netflix on April 3, 2016, and revolves around an ensemble cast of police officers being trained to deal with the recently-revealed supernatural side of their city.

[...]

** Production **

**Casting**

On June 7, 2015, it was announced that Eddie Kaspbrak had been cast as the main role of Topher in the series. On June 15, 2015, it was announced that Max Sinclair, Molly Widogast, and Tracie Thom had also joined the main cast as Nancy, Ezra, and Cassie respectively. Finally, on June 25, 2015, Manny Jacinto revealed on Instagram that he had joined the main cast as Jack. Richard Madden, Jurnee Smollett-Bell, Gabrielle Union, Jenny Slate and Andy Samberg have also been confirmed to play recurring or guest roles.

**Filming**

Principal photography for the series is set to commence on July 5, 2015.

\--

**starksintheimpala**  
hold on, hold up, fucking Eddie Kaspbrak? really? I thought the guy had quit acting or some shit after he and Myra Wilkes split up.

**flythefalcon**  
he hasn’t, he just hasn’t been in any good and memorable roles recently. mostly just cameos and murder victims here and there. this is the first lead role he’s gotten in a long while.

**skymurdock**  
Yeah the divorce was a HUGE scandal when it hit the papers and the show he was in killed him off. Same thing happened to Myra, comeback horror movie dropped her like a hot potato after all the allegations against her came out

Last thing I saw her in was a soap on ABC that lasted like one season

Good on Eddie for landing a lead role tho idk about this Richie dude??? never heard of him

**296 notes**

\--

Richie doesn’t expect to see Eddie again before the day of the table read, when production really starts, but somehow, Eddie just keeps walking into the writers’ room anyway. Which is pretty unusual, given that he’s an actor, and even moreso once they cast the other characters, because only Eddie comes into the room with any regularity.

Yes, some of the other actors come in at least once. Molly Widogast’s definitely made a mark on some of the junior writers for his sheer _presence_ , perfect for the loud and bombastic Ezra, but he’s only come in twice. Max Sinclair only came in once to suggest that they give her character more stunts to do, having once been a stunt person, and the other actors haven’t really come in at all. 

Except Eddie Kaspbrak.

Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie quickly decides, is probably an insane person. Or just very desperate not to get fired.

The writers get used to Eddie’s frequent visits quickly enough, treating him like they would anyone else who comes in while they’re working and demanding he get them food and drinks. _Richie_ becomes used to Eddie’s presence, nowhere near as bombastic as Molly’s, but simply constant and almost familiar. He slots into the crew like he’s always belonged there, slides into a seat beside Richie’s like it’s saved just for him.

Truth is, he’s not wrong. Richie keeps saving a chair for him, right beside him. He _likes_ riling the guy up, it’s so much fun. It is so, so shockingly _easy_ to get Eddie all worked up, and every time his hand cuts right through the air as he rants, Richie’s chest grows warm and fuzzy with delight. 

It helps, too, that Eddie has some insights that even Richie didn’t think about, but god knows Richie’s never going to admit to that. Ultimately, he’s the _writer_ here, and Eddie’s the guy who says his words.

He knows for sure he’s never really worked this closely with Eddie Kaspbrak before. He’d _remember_ someone who comes into the writer’s room, who seems to care as much as Richie does for getting this right, surely. Who’s willing to argue with Richie over character arcs and the lines he’ll say. Who somehow knows how to knock Richie off his guard as much as Richie weirdly knows how to rile him up right back.

Or maybe Eddie’s just doing this because this is his first real job in a while. Could be that too.

Anyway.

The writers’ room is busy as fuck in the run-up to principal photography. The scripts are done, from the pilot episode to the season finale, but they have to do some incredibly thorough revisions. In this day and age, people are far likelier to spot glaring errors in continuity than they used to be, especially dedicated fans and sharp-eyed critics. This shit needs to be _airtight_ , start to finish.

Richie is aware he and his writers are holding themselves to far higher standards than Netflix’s usual. He’s seen some shit shows on Netflix, even criticized a couple of them to friends. It’s not as if network executives really check for quality writing all that much. Look at _Game of Thrones_ , for fuck’s sake. It’s still reeling in the dough despite the writing’s quality decaying over the episodes, so clearly audiences don’t really give a shit for _quality_.

But. Well. It’s Richie’s first fucking show, as the _head writer_. As the _creator_. He has to get this right. Anyway, he’s fine, he’s fine. He’s had worse deadlines than this. It’s all fine.

That’s what he says to Veronica when she comes into his apartment, at three AM, to see him surrounded by paper cups and frantically typing on his laptop.

“What the _fuck_ , Rich,” says Veronica, when she walks inside.

“Could say the same to you, Ronnie,” says Richie, looking up to squint at her, eyes adjusting to her backlit silhouette. Is that a gown? “You’re the producer, you can sleep.”

“I was at an afterparty,” Veronica says, and okay, that explains the blue evening gown, the amount of near-translucent material and glitter that she ordinarily doesn’t wear. “Ducked out early, figured I’d come check on you. _Jesus_ , Rich, how much coffee have you been drinking?”

“I think I can see time,” Richie informs her, “and also a really good conclusion to Ezra’s storyline that _doesn’t_ involve unicorns.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, that was just spitballing, we’re not actually gonna involve unicorns,” says Veronica. “For one thing, we’re already pushing it on the CGI.” Her heels click on the floor as she steps closer, then sits next to Richie, frowning. “Rich,” she says, “it’s okay. You can sleep, it’s fine. The scripts will be there tomorrow.”

“But the deadline inches ever closer,” says Richie.

“Shit,” says Veronica. “You sound like the guy from _Misery’s Lover_. Now I know you need some sleep.”

“I need to edit this script and I need to get it done by this time on Saturday for the table read,” says Richie, running his hand through his hair. “You know this industry, Ronnie, you know I signed up for this.”

“Well, fucking sue me if I get worried about you,” says Veronica. “Listen. Richie, it’s _okay_ to take a break and sleep. You can’t write if you’re practically falling asleep at your laptop—you might end up accidentally writing a _Harry Potter_ crossover. Again.”

“Fuck you,” says Richie, “you replace a character’s name with McGonagall’s _one time_ and you never live it down.”

“You did it three times,” says Veronica, putting her hands on his cheeks, the way she used to when they were still rooming together and he’d get in his own head. “Hey. _Hey._ As your boss, I don’t wanna see you about to fall asleep at work. It’ll encourage the freelancers, and you _know_ just how desperate those fuckers are. As your _friend_ , I worry about you.”

“I don’t wanna fuck this up,” says Richie, pulling her hands away.

“And you won’t, because I’ll light a fire under your ass if you come close,” says Veronica. “But you need to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow you can work on the rest of the season finale script with the other writers.” She pats his cheek and says, “Now go get some sleep. Producer’s orders.”

“Fuck you for pulling rank on me,” huffs Richie, but he shuts down his laptop and stands up anyway. “Becoming showrunner really changed you.”

“Yeah, power is very addictive,” says Veronica, picking up her things and standing up as well. “I’m going home. I need to sleep too.”

\--

So Richie sleeps, and four hours later he makes himself another cup of coffee and makes a few more last-minute edits. Then he goes to work.

Or—well. First he goes to his favorite café on the way there. It’s a tiny little hole-in-the-wall that somehow has managed to cling on to life in the ever-shifting landscape of the LA streets, and for that Richie already loves it. He’s not sure he’d know what to do if it ever went out of business. Probably swear off coffee for good, maybe. Or retire from writing.

He parks his car just a block down from the sign that reads _Casilda_ in loopy cursive, and jams his hands into his pockets as he ducks inside. He’s got a usual table tucked up near the glass window, and in the mornings before he goes to work he likes to set himself up there with a clubhouse sandwich and a cup of coffee.

When he turns around, coffee and sandwich in hand, someone’s already sitting there. Some guy in a plaid shirt, doodling in a notebook, a half-eaten stack of pancakes nearby. His back’s turned to Richie, so there’s no way of telling who he is. Probably Richie should just give it up and retreat to his car today, yeah?

Yeah, no. Instead he walks forward and says, “Hey, you waiting for anybody?”

When Eddie Kaspbrak looks up from his notebook, Richie almost jumps out of his fucking skin. “Holy _fuck_ ,” says Eddie.

Holy fuck is right. Richie hadn’t expected Eddie of all people to be here in this café. Big hotshot actors don’t tend to come here, after all. This is a _writers’_ place. 

“The hell are you doing here?” Richie asks, deciding to pull out and slide into the seat across from Eddie, because—well, it’s not like anyone’s using it, right?

“Having _breakfast_ , asshole,” huffs Eddie, putting his notebook aside and stabbing into his pancakes with a little more force than necessary. “It’s a free country, I can eat where I fucking want.”

“Was Starbucks not open then?” Richie asks.

“Starbucks is fucking _awful_ ,” says Eddie. “They overcharge for their coffee because they _know_ the average Starbucks patron doesn’t know the difference between their shitty whipped-cream monstrosities and a _good_ iced latte. Fuck them and incidentally fuck their pastries too. I tried their sorry fucking croissant and nearly choked on it.” He pauses, then says, in a much calmer tone, “My regular café closed down for good yesterday, and one of your writers mentioned this place. Figured I’d go check it out at least, see what the hype was all about.”

“Which one was it?” Richie asks. “It was Francine, wasn’t it? She loves this fucking place.”

“Yeah, she said you recommended it to her,” says Eddie.

Richie holds his hands up, says, “You caught me. I fuckin’ adore this place.” He sighs, theatrically, and says, “It’s the only place in town where the latte tastes exactly right. I can’t make lattes like this, and believe me when I say I’ve fucking tried.”

“The lattes here cannot be that good,” Eddie says, skeptical.

Richie pushes his cup towards Eddie, and says, “So try it,” before he can think better of it. Once his brain catches up with his mouth, though, he freezes in place, because—Jesus fuck, he barely knows the guy. He’s been happily _antagonizing_ the guy since they first met, what is he doing?

Eddie is clearly asking himself the same question, because his eyebrows, like caterpillars, crawl up his forehead. “You _drank_ from that,” he points out. “Do you just—offer people your latte after you’ve had it? You do _know_ that the human mouth’s a breeding ground for—bacteria and shit—”

“One little sip is not gonna kill you, man,” says Richie, shaking his head. Usually he doesn’t do this, but you know what? Fine. “Don’t drink the whole thing because I might, but one sip of someone else’s latte is not going to shut down your digestive system.”

“You’d be surprised what it could do,” Eddie says, darkly.

“Come _on_ , don’t be such a pussy,” says Richie. “Just one sip. Just _one_.”

“You could just buy me the damn latte,” says Eddie, sitting up and leaning in. “Like a normal person.”

“What, for a taste test?” scoffs Richie. “Fuck no. I’m not sticking you with a whole mug to drink if you hate it. This way if you don’t want it, then I don’t have to toss Carrie’s hard work into the trash. Or her employees’ hard work.”

“Carrie?” says Eddie.

“The owner,” says Richie. “Nice lady. Her wife Sue’s a supervising producer on _Girl Meets World_. Just one sip, Eds.” He blinks, shocked at himself, at the nickname that’s just slipped out of his mouth. What is he doing? This is the star of his show.

“Don’t call me _Eds_ ,” says Eddie, narrowing his eyes at him, but there’s no real heat behind his voice. “Sounds like a kid.”

“You look just as adorable,” Richie counters.

“Oh, _fuck you_ ,” says Eddie, something flashing behind his eyes, and takes a sip of the latte. Then he pauses, and slowly puts the cup down. “Goddammit,” he says, resigned. “This actually tastes good. I fucking hate you, why does this _taste good?_ ”

“Right!” Richie crows. “I think it’s witchcraft. I’m pretty sure Carrie secretly made a deal and now her café serves the best coffee in town. This kinda coffee’s the kind you give your _soul_ to be able to make.”

“The best coffee in town is debatable,” says Eddie, “but yeah, I’d say it’s the best on the block. Better than Starbucks, definitely.”

“You coffee snob,” says Richie.

“Fuck _you_ , I have _taste_.” Eddie’s eyes flick to the world outside, and he huffs out a breath. “How’d you find this place, anyway?” he asks.

Richie taps his fingers against the handle of his mug. “I was trying to make it in stand-up comedy,” he confesses, with a shrug. “They were holding an open mic night here,” and he nods to the stage set up to the side. “I went up and did fifteen minutes. Got a round of applause after that, then Carrie offered all of us who went onstage a free dinner for putting ourselves out there. This was the early 2000s, and I had three jobs and zero time to make anything more than instant ramen, so when I heard _free dinner_ , I couldn’t not stick around.” He smiles at the memory, stirring his latte absently with the stirring stick. “And it tasted fucking _amazing_ , so. I started coming here a lot more.”

“Does she still do that?” Eddie asks.

Richie shakes his head. “Yeah, no, not the free dinners anymore,” he says. “Nowadays she just offers free coffee and cupcakes if you go onstage during an open mic night.”

“Hm.” Eddie’s eyes slide over to the stage, and he drums his fingers against the table. Then he looks back at Richie, and god _damn_ , those are some beautiful eyes. Leading man material, Richie knows. How the fuck did he not land any lead roles until _Night Shift_? How did Richie get this lucky, to get this guy cast in his show? “What’s it like?”

Richie shakes himself out of his reverie, and shrugs. “Like any other open mic night,” he says. “Sometimes you get really good shit, sometimes somebody goes up onstage and spews some pretentious shit about volcanoes and girlfriends and how there’s no real difference. It’s a mixed bag.”

“Do you still go up onstage?” Eddie asks, now. “I know you did stand-up, it’s on your Wikipedia page, but—I’ve never seen your shit before. Didn’t you ever get anyone’s attention?”

Did he ever. As comfortable as Richie is with Eddie (and so _fast_ too), some things he can’t quite bring himself to say, just yet. So he smiles, and says, “Sometimes, yeah. But we never really clicked, y’know? So I went into writing for TV instead, and there I’ve stayed ever since.” He nods towards the stage, and says, “With a few exceptions for friends, of course.”

Eddie looks at him for a long moment, those big brown eyes apparently searching Richie’s face like—like that body language expert on the one show, what was it called again? The one where he used to be a fake psychic? Probably _The Mentalist_. Richie forces a charming smile onto his face, and takes a sip of his coffee.

Eventually Eddie lets out a breath, and says, “When’s open mic night, usually?”

“Every first Tuesday of the month,” says Richie. “Why, you got a poem you wanna inflict on us or something?”

“Worse, a monologue I wrote after my break-up,” says Eddie, and Richie laughs. His ankle knocks against Eddie’s, and for a moment, just the briefest moment, he half-thinks, _Like the hammock all over again._

Then: 

_What hammock?_

\--

The table read goes about as well as any table reads usually go. Molly brings a spark to Ezra’s lines that bounces nicely off Tracie’s world-weary portrayal of Cassie and Max’s disarmingly cheery rendition of Nancy, while Manny infuses the rules-obsessed Jack with an earnest belief that makes even Richie, who _wrote_ him as a smug little stickler, root for him. 

Then there’s Eddie.

Even sitting down, out of costume and in a buttoned-up polo shirt that Topher would never wear outside of a work function, Eddie sinks into the role of Topher just fine. It’s insane how good he is at it, how he pulls everyone’s attention onto him, how cocky that half-smirk that Richie’s written into the script is. And this is just the table read—all he really does are gestures and facial expressions, but it kills Richie, how well Eddie can slip into character even then.

And it’s the character _Richie_ wrote, the first one he came up with for this show, the one he slapped a concerning amount of, _fine_ —his own shit onto. Dressed up with his insecurities and with his penchant for hiding behind risqué humor, and he’d been surprised that they’d gotten Eddie Kaspbrak of all people to play the guy.

But now he can’t imagine anyone else doing it. 

There’s an energy Eddie brings to the character, like he thinks faster than he can talk, and he can talk _fast_. His hand slices through the air with every word, a gesture Richie now can’t untangle from his picture of Topher. Molly’s flashy Ezra butts heads with Topher in one scene, and the two of them at the table read are nearly climbing on the table to point at each other, jabbing fingers at each other and talking over each other so much that it sends Max into a fit of laughter. Max herself has an enjoyably flirty scene with Eddie that they perform with great aplomb, although something about it—well, something’s just _missing_.

They take a break from the table read, for lunch. When Richie steps out of the building, he spots Molly jumping into his redheaded husband’s arms, nearly bowling the man over, the two of them laughing the whole time as the guy spins him around. Max slings her arm around her husband Lucas’s shoulders, and they amble off in the direction of some nearby diner, Tracie beside them, Manny following in their wake.

He shades his eyes from the sun as he looks around.

“Hey,” someone says behind him, and Richie whips around so fast he almost breaks his own neck. But it’s just Veronica, sipping from a mango shake she got from the stall at the entrance of the building. “I think we’ve got something special here,” she says.

“Yeah, no shit we do,” says Richie, happily. “God bless Ilse Freemantle’s magic eye, yeah?”

“God fucking bless,” Veronica sagely responds, gently knocking her elbow into his as the two of them start walking down the street. “How many seasons can we keep this up for, d’you think?”

“I got a plan for three, maybe four,” says Richie. “But better shows have gotten axed at earlier points.”

“Hey!” someone calls behind them, and Richie stops, turns to see Eddie hurrying down the street to join them. “Hey—where are you heading off to?”

“Shawarma stall,” says Veronica.

“Come try it,” says Richie.

Veronica slowly turns her head around to stare at him, an eyebrow arching upward in surprise. Which, fair. Usually Richie doesn’t invite his actors out to eat with him. Usually the actors don’t flag them down in the middle of the street to eat with them.

Eddie squints at them both. “You do know that if you eat shawarma right off the street you’ll probably get some kind of gastro-intestinal infection, right?” he asks. “You don’t know if the vendor’s been handling the food correctly and _safely_ , if they’ve been washing their hands or changing the oil or even cooking the meat all the fucking way—which is possible to fuck up, I’ve seen it, chicken shawarma can cause salmonella if it’s undercooked—”

“We’re not gonna eat chicken shawarma, if that helps,” says Veronica, a little wide-eyed.

“Trust me, this stall’s fucking meticulous about their meat,” says Richie. “Come on, one shawarma won’t kill you. And if you don’t want it, there’s a place that sells falafel burgers literally ten feet away.”

“I do like falafel,” Eddie begrudgingly admits.

“Of fucking course you do, you health nut,” Richie says.

“Fucking excuse me,” huffs Eddie, “if I watch what I put into my body, Mister ‘Three Donuts And A Latte Count As Breakfast for Writers’—”

“I keep telling you to stop eating so many donuts,” Veronica says, lightly smacking Richie’s shoulder with the back of her hand. “Your dad’s a dentist and you’re almost forty, at this rate you’re gonna need a heart bypass surgery or something.”

“Fuck you both,” says Richie, grinning brightly, and slinging an arm around Eddie’s shoulders to tug him in closer against his side. Eddie stiffens under his arm for a moment, and something swoops low in Richie’s stomach. Has he done something wrong? Has he overstepped a boundary? He’s been overstepping a lot of lines in Eddie’s direction, lately, and he doesn’t know how to stop, can’t bring himself to, but—

Eddie relaxes into his side, after a moment, letting out a long-suffering sigh. Which is hilarious, because they haven’t really known each other long enough for Eddie to earn that right. Richie lightly ruffles Eddie’s perfectly-parted hair, laughs as Eddie curses and ducks out of his grasp, trying to arrange his hair back into something less obviously mussed.

Veronica squints up at them both with a look of confusion in her eye. Richie can sympathize. He’s not sure either how he and Eddie fell into this—whatever it is they have between them, this thing dancing close to friendship, too familiar and too close for two strangers who only met a month ago. He trusts the guy like he’s known him fucking forever, and Eddie seems to treat him that way too.

Professionally speaking, they’re in very murky waters here, but hell, it’s like Richie said—he’s the very picture of unprofessionalism.

“Hey, Rich, quick question,” says Veronica, “have you guys ever met before?”

“Not really,” says Richie. “I’d remember him.”

“I think you were there when I guested on CSI?” Eddie says, and Richie turns to look at him, at the thoughtful way his eyebrows are furrowing. “What?” he says, somewhat defensive, frowning at Richie like a muppet of some kind. “You have an IMDB page, I looked you up. I wanted to know what I was getting into, and imagine my surprise when I saw you used to be a writer on CSI.”

“I had to pad out my resumé somehow,” Richie says. “Anyway, all that research on police procedure is coming in real handy now.” Which is good, because what the fuck else is he going to do with it. There’s no easy way to work gruesome murders and police procedure into a stand-up routine, even a shitty one he only sometimes pulls out at open mic nights.

“There’s actual police procedure on CSI?” Veronica asks. “That’s new. I thought they made all that shit up.”

“I know, right?” Eddie says. “I got jury duty after my episode and, let me tell you, it’s nothing like that.”

“Oh, fuck you both,” says Richie, unable to stop himself from smiling. “See if I buy you assholes shawarma.”

\--

Veronica’s first to leave their shawarma party, although it’s only temporary. “It’s Nancy Wheeler, I’ve _got_ to take this, I’ll be right back,” she says, and races to a nearby bench like her ass is on fire, one hand rummaging through her purse.

“The reporter?” Eddie asks, taking his chicken shawarma from the vendor.

“She’s been trying to get the movie rights to one of Wheeler’s stories for fuckin’ _months_ , now,” says Richie, leaning against the side of the stall, his half-eaten shawarma in hand. “The one about the—the Russian conspiracy under the mall, I guess?” Jesus, when he says that out loud it sounds straight up deranged, the kind of thing that just doesn’t happen in small towns in real life.

“Oh, yeah, that one,” says Eddie. “Yeah, I can see that on the silver screen.” He takes a bite out of his chicken shawarma, and frowns as he chews. “It’s not bad,” he says, “but it needs a little something.”

“Dump some hot sauce on it,” Richie suggests. “You’re eating it plain, that’s the problem.”

“Fuck no,” says Eddie. “And I have to eat it plain! Any richer and I’ll probably have a fucking heart attack or something, or a cholesterol build-up, or—”

Richie grabs the bottle of hot sauce, dumps out what he’s pretty sure is a metric fuckton on his shawarma, then shakes the bottle in Eddie’s face. “We’ll take this journey together if you’re so worried,” he says.

“No fucking way we will,” says Eddie.

“I dare you. I double dog dare you.”

“What the fuck are you, _five?_ ”

“Diet culture is a construct, anyway,” says Richie. “Health culture? Whatever the fuck kind of culture it is where you need sixteen-pack abs to look hot.”

“It’s not a culture thing!” Eddie huffs. “And it isn’t going to work, so you better just cut your losses now.”

“Just _once_ ,” Richie wheedles. “Come on. You liked the latte. You’ll probably like this, and if you don’t, you get first crack at the water. I’ll even pay.” He puts the bottle down, yanks a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and says, “Look, I’m paying right now! Hey, big guy, give my friend here the coldest bottle of water you have, yeah?”

The vendor raises his eyebrow at the both of them, then shrugs. He plucks the twenty dollars from Richie’s hand and starts rummaging through his ice box.

Eddie narrows his eyes at Richie, then at the shawarma. Then he sighs. “If I get heartburn I’m blaming you,” he says, then upends the bottle of hot sauce and squirts a generous dollop onto his shawarma.

The triumph Richie feels exploding in his chest like fireworks on the Fourth of July lasts even when he sets his throat on actual fire, biting into his shawarma.

\--

**# the-write-bitches**

**francine**  
is it just me or does writer dad seem into mr kaspbrak  
like super into him

**undeadsolo**  
Richie’s not gay tho???  
Doesn’t he have a girlfriend  
Didn’t he and Veronica use to date

**jayjay**  
ew  
gross  
no I’m pretty sure they were just college roommates  
and if he does have a girlfriend he hasn’t said shit about her lately maybe they broke up

**francine**  
i dont think he has one  
for one thing weve never even seen her

**undeadsolo**  
He’s a private guy Frankie!!

**francine**  
the amount of jokes about pussy vomit the man makes do you really think a woman would stay with him  
DO YOU

\--

**_10 TV Shows We’re Dying To See Next Year_ **  
_by Jester Lavorre_

**5. _Night Shift_**  
The brainchild of writer/comedian Richie Tozier, _Night Shift_ is a police procedural sitcom in the style of _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ with a twist of _What We Do in the Shadows_. “It’s like, what happens after the horror movie?” explains Veronica Sawyer, executive producer and showrunner. “Who are the poor assholes who have to mop up the mess right afterwards and file reports about it? Try to solve a case about it? And what if this group of poor assholes do it in a world where this is just par for the course?” With an ensemble cast of talented actors lined up, including Eddie Kaspbrak ( _The Stand_ , _Misery's Lover_ ), _Night Shift_ promises zany supernatural shenanigans against the backdrop of a police precinct in a world where the supernatural is utterly mundane.

(Full disclosure: I’m friends with one of the actors, so I’m super excited for this one, folks! Stream it on Netflix when it airs!)


	2. 2015 - II.

It becomes a tradition before Richie knows it: needling Eddie into coming with him to try something new, for one or both of them. Usually for Eddie, because for some godforsaken reason, before he met Richie, Eddie never put anything less healthy than free-range organically-grown kombucha into his body. Or—something else very green and healthy and shit, it’s not like Richie keeps up with the latest health crazes the way Eddie seems to almost religiously.

Really, it’s probably a blessing that Richie’s come crashing into his life, because if he hadn’t, he despairs to think of what Eddie would’ve happily continued putting into his body. More “organic” avocado toast, probably. Jesus fucking weeps for him. Richie certainly is.

They’re in the rehearsal stages right now—costumes have been made, sets have been built, and they’re running through the first couple of episodes, trying to figure out blocking, searching for scenes or jokes to cut or revise. Richie’s already had to strike out quite a few jokes, and he mourns for every single one of them even as he strikes out the original line and marks the changes.

Eddie, it turns out, also likes making people laugh. It’s not as obvious as it is with Richie, because Richie’s always making the jokes and trying to pull laughter out of people and Eddie seems so uptight and serious. But sometimes Eddie does something, or says something, that gets one of the others to crack up laughing. Max especially cackles after he gets off a good pun about cockiness, and the director makes them start over again, “but this time with a little less corpsing, please.”

“Why were you a drama actor and not a comedian, huh?” Richie asks, when they’re taking a break outside the studio. Literally just outside, slumped together against the wall. He’s got the newest version of the script in hand, printed in bright pink. Eddie’s version of this episode’s script is a fucking rainbow, old pages swapped out for new ones. “You’re a funny guy.”

“Yeah, not really,” says Eddie. He’s nibbling on a BLT sandwich, lightly toasted, from one of the nearer stalls. “I mean, I’m funnier than you—”

“Ouch,” says Richie.

“—shut the fuck up, it’s not hard,” says Eddie, “but I’m not funny enough to make it into comedy and live up to my own standards. You know?” He sighs. “I mean, I haven’t lived up to my own standards in a while, though. So.”

“So?” says Richie. “Dane Cook has a Netflix special and he’s not fucking funny. Daniel Tosh has a Comedy Central special and _he’s_ a fucking asshole.” He shakes his own sandwich in Eddie’s face, and says, “Meanwhile you’re in there and you’re getting everyone around you laughing with barely a sweat. You know I’m pissed at you for that? You know I’d sell my fucking soul to be that funny?”

“It isn’t consistent,” says Eddie.

“Practice makes perfect,” says Richie. “And you _are_ consistent, at least right up until dinner, but everybody’s too busy thinking about food to act then.” He takes a bite out of his sandwich and says, mouth still full, “So why drama? And why shift now?”

“Shut your fucking mouth while you eat,” says Eddie, smacking his shoulder. “I like drama. I like digging into the meat of a character, I like the conflicts, I like the stakes of it, the feelings I get to invoke. If someone tells me they cried at my CSI episode, even if that wasn’t my best work, I feel fucking great for weeks.” He taps his greasy fingers against the knee of his jeans, then makes a somewhat disgusted face at himself. It’s weirdly cute. “I just—I’m not a guy who likes conflict in real life, usually. I like having my shit in order.”

Richie stares at him. He says, “Yesterday you told me that the best taco truck in town was, and I’m quoting you almost verbatim here,” and he drops into his best Eddie impression, “ _a fucking breeding ground for stomach bugs and the tacos taste like rat meat—_ ”

“Shut the fuck up,” huffs Eddie.

“You said that! Not me!” Richie nudges his shoulder. “You argue with me all the fucking time about food and the first time we met you just came right out and said _fuck your mom jokes_ , that’s not someone scared of conflict.”

“Not with _you_ for some fucking reason,” says Eddie. “Something about you just makes me want to fight you.”

“You and literally everyone I know. Take a number and get in line,” says Richie. “Personally I think it’s the forehead. It’s offensive somehow.”

“I think it’s the part where you tell them you fucked their dead mom,” says Eddie.

“I guess that plays a part too,” says Richie, reflectively. “The thing is, Eds, I’ve known you only a little more than a month and in that time you’ve been nothing but a spitfire.”

“It’s just you,” says Eddie, quietly. “With everyone else, I hate it. I never really—Usually it involves a lot of screaming arguments until the other person gets their way, so I just head it off at the pass and agree to whatever it is they want. I’m scared of what’ll happen if I don’t. I’m scared of a lot of things.” He laughs, and it sounds hollow, almost tired. “I’m a fucking coward.”

“Hey, quit it,” says Richie, bumping his shoulder, turning his body towards him now. He’s not sure what damaged Eddie like that, but suddenly he wants, very badly, to tell him: _it’s okay to fall, because I’ll be there to catch you._ “That’s my friend you’re talking shit about.” And it comes out so easily— _my friend_ , like Eddie’s been his friend for ages. Like they’ve known each other far, far longer than just over a month. Ah, shit, they might be in trouble.

Eddie looks at him now, warm brown eyes fixed on Richie. “Friends, huh?” he says.

“Think about it this way,” says Richie, “you get perks now. ‘Cause buddy, you’re looking at the reason this whole show even exists.”

“Yeah, such a huge fucking perk, eating a sandwich outside the studio during rehearsals with the head writer who does nothing but annoy the shit out of me and tell me about fucking my mom,” Eddie says, dryly, but a corner of his mouth is twitching upward. “Really feeling special here.”

“Well, you don’t see me taking Jacinto out for shawarma,” says Richie. “So—what were you doing in drama?”

“It was a safe place,” says Eddie. “I could be anyone, do anything, I could be _brave_. I guess that’s why acting in general appealed to me—I liked being brave, for a little while. Brave as somebody else, someone a hell of a lot stronger than I could be.”

And doesn’t that sound familiar. “Easier to be brave,” Richie says, softly, “if you’re doing it as someone else.”

Eddie’s gaze slants over towards him, and for a moment Richie’s breath sticks in his throat. But Eddie doesn’t say anything about that, about the experience in Richie’s voice. All he says is, “Yeah. Like that. Drama was helpful for that.” He pulls up a knee to his chest, and says, “Comedy’s sort of like that, except it’s a different kind of bravery. I needed something new, after my divorce, and—well. Not a lot of people felt like hiring me.”

“Why not?” Richie asks. “Divorce isn’t a death knell for people’s careers anymore. What made yours so different?”

“I—kind of went on a downward spiral,” says Eddie, almost evasively. Okay, that’s a sensitive subject, apparently. “My ex didn’t really help, we were both pissed at each other. But I—uh, I got to a point where I just, like, lost my temper on set and yelled at someone.” He hunches in on himself, the shame written clear across his face, and Richie’s hand is already coming up to rest on his shoulder before Richie’s brain has anything to say about that. “It was fucking ugly, the guy cried like I’d hit him. In retrospect, he didn’t really deserve that, I’d just had a bad day and he was the nearest target. And, well, shit went from there.” He presses his fingers to his temples, and says, “And my ex said some shit to the press that—really wasn’t helpful, and they just ran with it.”

“Shit,” says Richie, squeezing Eddie’s shoulder. “Fuck, man, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be fucking sorry, you didn’t do anything,” says Eddie, patting Richie’s hand. He makes no move to take it off his shoulder, so Richie figures it’s okay, if he keeps it there. Good. It kinda looks like Eddie might need it there, and human contact’s always been helpful for Richie, when he had shit like this. “I dug that hole myself. Well. My ex helped in digging it, too, I guess, but I’m the one with the anger issues, here.”

“Never would’ve guessed,” says Richie. “You barely even swear.”

“Fuck you,” says Eddie. “I—Honestly, until I got the part here, I didn’t think I would? Get it, I mean. I got used to having to audition for shit like, god, _The Nut Job 2_.”

“Now I’m really sorry,” says Richie, shuddering. “You poor fucking bastard, no one deserves that.”

“Oh, definitely not,” says Eddie, “but it was a learning experience. You know? I got guest parts on sitcoms, voice work on shit like _Nut Job_. It actually taught me a couple things about comedy I hadn’t known.” He jerks a thumb to the studio wall behind them, and says, “And now I’m here.”

“Now you’re here,” Richie agrees, “and thank fucking god for that. You know Topher was the hardest person for me to cast?”

“I thought Ilse did the casting,” says Eddie.

“Yeah, she does, but she had some of my notes over what I wanted,” says Richie. “And she used to complain that I was too specific with him. With a lot of the main characters, really, but him the most.” He breathes out slow, lets his head rest against the studio wall. “But then—you,” he says. “And maybe I didn’t write him with you in mind, but now I can’t imagine anybody else in the role. You’re the best person for it.”

“Thanks,” says Eddie, sounding distinctly choked up. “Richie, I—”

“Hey!” someone calls, and they both look up to see one of the PAs striding towards them. “Lunch is done, and Mr. Kaspbrak, Mr. Tozier, we need you back in five.”

“We’ll be right there,” says Eddie, as professional as always as he stands.

Richie catches sight of his very nice ass for a moment and thinks, idly, _Would you look at that._

\--

They move into principal photography, fast. Because of the schedules of some of the actors, they have to move a few of the later episodes up in terms of production schedule, and so that’s how, on a bright LA afternoon, Richie’s on set for the big damn kiss between Topher and Nancy.

It’s not going too well.

“Cut!” calls the director, a guy named Cary Ripton, who’s an old hand at directing sitcoms. “Cut, cut.”

“Jesus _God_ , what is it now?” Max groans, pulling away from Eddie and making a face at the director under the heavy werewolf prosthetics and makeup. This never gets normal, to Richie, seeing someone snap in and out of character just like that in costume—drop the accent, the body language, the mannerisms, but still look just like the character. He’s looking at Max now, sweary Max who does almost all her own stunts and likes the thrill of it, not sweet and cheery Nancy.

“Where’s the _passion?_ ” says Ripton, stepping out of his chair. “Kaspbrak, you’re too stiff. You’re holding her the same way you’d hold a cardboard cutout, like so.” And he demonstrates, pretending to very awkwardly wrap his arms around an imaginary standee and lift it up off the ground, then puckering up his lips. It’s deeply awkward and uncomfortably accurate as to what Eddie had been doing. “That’s the love of your life! Hold her like you’re gonna lose her!”

“I’m fucking trying!” Eddie calls back.

“Sinclair, please don’t try to bend him over and dip him,” says Ripton, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is your first kiss with the man you’ve just realized you’re in love with, you’ve gotta be stunned, gobsmacked, awed. You’re not trying to dip him, you’re trying to process that you’re all wolfy and shit and he’s still kissing you anyway, because he loves you.”

“I could do all that and dip him,” says Max. “Who the fuck says I can’t?”

“Me, the _director_ ,” says Ripton.

“I dipped my husband at our wedding kiss,” says Max, folding her arms and staring Ripton down with intense eyes. That honestly explains a couple of things, really—the only person Max really kisses with that much passion is her husband. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t get to dip my TV boyfriend while I’m in awe of the very basic human decency he just showed me.”

“I’m fine with getting dipped,” says Eddie.

“Speaking for the writers,” says Richie, popping some popcorn into his mouth, “fuckin’ dip him.”

They start over again, but even with the dip, something still doesn’t quite work. Eddie still doesn’t quite seem to fall right into the kiss the way Richie’s seen him do with ease into everything else.

“Cut!” Ripton calls. “Fuck, take five. Take _fifteen_ , Jesus, figure something out.”

“Thank fucking god,” Max mutters, and walks off the soundstage to open her phone and call her husband. Presumably to complain about her day and her costars.

Eddie walks off the soundstage, expression thunderous. Richie sets his bag of popcorn aside and stands to catch his elbow, and says, “Hey, Eds, can we talk?”

“Don’t fucking call me Eds,” Eddie snaps. Then he flinches away. “Shit, sorry.”

“Whoa, hey, it’s just me, man,” says Richie, holding his hands up. “You’ve said worse to me, it’s cool, I’ve got thick skin. Let’s take a walk, yeah?” Jesus, Eddie’s jumpy today, and Richie has no fucking clue why. All he can do is rest his hand on Eddie’s shoulder and guide him out of the studio, take him for a walk around the building, they don’t have time for more than that. “What’s up?” he asks, as soon as they’ve stepped away.

“Nothing,” says Eddie, a little too hurriedly.

“Eddie,” says Richie. “Hey. Talk to me, man.” He nudges Eddie’s shoulder, and adds, “If it’s—If you don’t wanna talk about it, it’s fine. I won’t push. But it’s like Ripton said, you gotta figure something out. Hate to break it to ya, but you looked like you were kissing a frog and not a princess. You know, like this?” And he holds his palm up to the level of his mouth, screws his face up, and puckers his lips, exaggeratedly leaning in with eyes squeezed shut.

Eddie laughs, startled. “Fuck off,” he says, but he’s smiling now, and something flutters in Richie’s stomach at the sight of it. Eddie smiles in the sun-drenched studio lot, and Richie sort of wants to bottle up this moment, watch it whenever he can. Save it for rainy days, something that Richie can point at to prove that there is still good in this world. “God, Rich. Yeah. Okay. Uh.” He runs a hand through his hair before he can catch himself, then makes a face. “Shit, the stylists are gonna kill me.”

“Blame me,” says Richie. “They’ve been on my ass because I keep ruffling people’s hair.”

“My hair, specifically,” says Eddie.

“It’s so cute, though,” says Richie. “But no, continue. What did you wanna say?”

Eddie fiddles with his sleeves. It’s strange, that he’s wearing Topher’s clothes but doing something so un-Topher, so _Eddie_. “I have,” he starts, “a—history. With meds. Specifically, I have a history of being lied to about my meds.”

“Oh,” says Richie.

“It started with my mom,” says Eddie. “And she kept it going by telling my girlfriends. My ex thought I had, like, a fuckload of medical problems, like fucking asthma or some shit, and she ended perpetuating that cycle. She wanted to _help me_ , you know? She saw a broken man and she wanted to put him back together herself, in a shape that she could love. She wanted to _fix me_. And the fucked up thing was that I agreed with that, I agreed with what she thought I was: broken and weak and unable to stand on my own feet.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, looks down, scuffs his shoe against the pavement. “I thought that was how love worked,” he says. “You fit with your person or you’re made to fit. And love is just compromising so you at least have corners carved out for yourself.”

“Did you love her, though?” Richie asks.

“No,” says Eddie, softly. “I mean, I must’ve loved someone. I remember—I remember I was happy, once, really fucking happy and in love, but it was a long time ago.” But he tips his head up towards the sky, and exhales. “But I don’t think I ever loved her,” he says, “not in the way she wanted. And I tried, I fucking tried to be what she wanted. What everyone wanted. I really fucking tried.”

“But it didn’t work out,” Richie finishes.

“It didn’t,” Eddie agrees. “She never really—She wanted me to pretend, even when I was sick of it. And now I’m standing here trying to pretend that I love this woman in front of me, and all I can think of is, fuck, I’m still trying. I can’t think of—anything, in my life, where I loved someone so much I’d kiss them even if they looked all,” he waves a hand, “werewolf-y. Is that shallow? It’s definitely shallow.”

“No, honestly, Eddie,” says Richie, “if someone tried to kiss me and they looked like a fucking werewolf, I would run the fuck away from them.” He pauses, then says, “So is that how you do it? The Stanislavsky method?”

Eddie stares at him. Then a corner of his mouth turns upward. “You’re just full of surprises, Tozier,” he says, his voice full of wonder. “Yeah, that’s some of it. Other times I borrow from other people or I use this thing called _imagination_.”

“Funny, I have that too,” Richie shoots back. “I’m not an acting coach, so take my advice with a grain of salt here, but—what if you did that? Imagined something that didn’t happen, someone you didn’t actually kiss but you wish you did. Like Angelina Jolie, maybe.”

“Eh,” says Eddie. “I’m more Pamela Anderson, myself.”

“So imagine her instead of Max in werewolf makeup,” says Richie. “Hell, shut your eyes and think of Pamela if that helps. Ripton’ll never know the difference.”

“You know the guy before he came in?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah, he’s one of Ronnie’s director buddies,” says Richie. “He—Back in the day he offered to direct my stand-up special, if I ever got one? But obviously I washed out of that, so.” He runs a hand through his own hair, now.

“Why’d you wash out?” Eddie asks.

“Hm?”

“You’re good at this,” says Eddie, pivoting so he’s in front of Richie now, instead of walking beside him. Even in the platforms they had to hook him up with, Eddie’s still short enough that Richie has to look down to meet his eyes. “Mom jokes aside, the things you write—they’re _good_. And you told me yourself, you still take the stage sometimes, so why not do it more often? There’s a long list of comedians who do.”

“You remember when I said it never really happened for me?” Richie says. “I got attention, but the people I got it from—let’s just say that when I burned out, they dropped me like a hot potato.”

“Burned out?” Eddie asks.

Richie shrugs, and says, “I—made a couple bad choices. Ended up in rehab. Hit the tabloids a couple of times. You know, the usual rock star life.” _And living it and telling everyone a lie at the same time nearly killed me,_ he doesn’t say, because. Well, he’d have to tell Eddie about his secret, the one he needed ghostwriters to cover up with stories about masturbating to hot girls and staring down Angelina Jolie’s tits. “Next thing you know…” He shrugs.

“Fuck,” says Eddie, quietly. “You too?”

Richie stops in his tracks. “Too?” he says.

“Well, mine was anger management,” says Eddie. “And a fuckton of therapy, not really _rehab_ , but—similar enough, I guess.” His breath hisses out between his teeth. “God, look at us, huh? What a pair of friends we make.”

“Didn’t know we were a pair,” says Richie, something in the center of his chest growing sweetly warm at Eddie calling them _friends_. He’s thought of Eddie as a friend since maybe just after the table read, definitely during rehearsals. “I think this pair oughta get back, though,” he adds, a little reluctantly.

“Oh, shit, you’re right,” says Eddie. “Veronica’ll kick both our asses if we’re gone so long.”

\--

The nightmare comes a month into filming, and as nightmares go, it’s one of the most unsettling that Richie’s ever had.

He’s standing in a dark, damp, cavernous sewer, deep beneath the earth, thirteen again and alone. The water sloshes around his worn sneakers, and there’s something deeper in that’s calling his name. _Come home soon,_ the Thing whispers, with the singsong voice of his dear old mom but… _off_ , somehow. _You and him both. Have a little family reunion, Richie, with the only real family you ever knew._

“Who are you?” Richie calls, turning around on his heels, trying to see where the voice is coming from, trying to catch a glimpse of the Thing. But he lost his glasses, and all he sees are blurry shapes. He thinks he sees bodies in what little light there is, down here, floating face-up in the water: bodies of children, same as him. Floating arms, legs, heads. A white shoe floats past, and he realizes with a start: the water’s rising. _Oh, god._

He spins, trying to catch sight of a way out. “Someone help me!” he calls, racing to a tunnel, trying to climb through. “Someone, anyone! Please, god, please, can anyone fucking hear me? Someone _help_!”

_No one’s coming, Richie,_ comes the whisper in the dark. _No one’s coming for you. No one even noticed you were gone._

Richie turns again, his sneakers splashing in the water. He could swear he caught a flash of red, somewhere. He needs to get out of here. He could _die_ down here, if he doesn’t get out soon, the water’s come all the way up to his waist. _Where is all this water coming from?_ he thinks, half-hysterical. He wades towards the tunnel, reaches up to try and haul himself up as the water climbs, climbs, climbs—

What grabs his hand is a hand made of felt and threads, fingers coming apart at the seams, exposing needles under its fabric skin. The other slips his glasses on, and Richie’s breath catches right in his throat.

It’s himself. Only—not. It’s a puppet version of himself, with buttons for eyes and black string threaded through his lips, sealing his mouth shut. The thing tilts its head, tries to say _something_ as Richie tries to pull himself up, the edge of the tunnel cutting into one hand and the puppet’s needles are pushing into Richie’s skin.

“Help,” says Richie, “help, _help me please_ —”

The puppet hisses, through a mouth oozing with black blood that hits his skin and _burns_ , dear god how it burns. _Coming soon._

Then it lets go, and Richie falls into the water with a scream. From below, a tiny hand grabs his ankle, then another, then another. He kicks at them, frantically, and tries to claw his way back up to the surface.

But the hands keep coming, and all around him he hears the giggling of children. _We all float down here, Richie,_ a thousand voices call through the water, as Richie’s lungs burn from the lack of oxygen, as he kicks feebly through the water to try and reach the surface for a single fucking breath. _Come float with us! Come play with the clown!_

Unable to hold it anymore, as the hands tug him down, down, down, Richie opens his mouth to scream—

—and he wakes up in his bed, a scream ripping out of his throat.

“Fuck,” he breathes out into the night, pushing himself up to a sitting position. Shit. Shit, shit, _fuck_ , what the fuck was _that_ all about? He presses the heel of his palm to his eyelid, pushes upward, trying to get his breath back to something less ragged and panicky. He swallows the bile that threatens to spill out of him and onto his floor, because he really doesn’t want to clean up his own puke so late at night.

“Nightmare,” he mutters to himself, trying to calm his racing heart. “Just a nightmare. You’re doing way too much research into crimes and police procedures, that’s why.” He rubs at his eyes, then lies back down in bed, looking up at his grey ceiling. The world is still dark outside, and when Richie fumbles for his phone and checks the time, he lets his head fall back with a tired groan. Fuck, really, _three_ in the morning?

He’s just barely set the phone aside when it starts to buzz. With a grumble, he pulls it off the bedside drawer again, then blinks at the contact name: _Eds,_ it says. What would Eddie need from him at 3 AM?

He slides his thumb across the screen and says, in his best Marlon Brando voice, “Now you come to me, and you say, ‘Don Corleone, give me justice,’ eh?”

“How about, Don Corleone, shut the fuck up?” Eddie says, over the phone, and Richie laughs. “Ass.”

“You’re the one calling at like three in the morning, man,” says Richie, grinning up at the ceiling.

“Oh, right,” says Eddie, the anger deflated. “Shit. Did I wake you up? Sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be,” says Richie. “Had a shitty nightmare, so I don’t really feel like going back to sleep. What’s the point if I’m just gonna scare myself into a heart attack, right?”

“If you don’t have a healthy amount of sleep you increase your chances of a heart attack, actually,” says Eddie.

“And yet here we are at 3 AM,” says Richie. “Why’d you call? Did a cockroach run over your bare feet in the middle of the night, and you’re waiting for the smell of insecticide to clear from your room?”

“No,” says Eddie. “Although, thanks, I’m gonna harass Paul into getting the basement fumigated.”

“You live in a basement?” Richie asks.

“Yeah, but it’s a nice, stupidly expensive basement,” says Eddie, which, okay, true, this is LA. If Richie wanted to rent a bathroom he’d have to pay some astronomically high rates. “I just needed to talk to you, though, that was all. I had—a pretty fucked-up dream, too.”

“Oh, shit, hey,” says Richie. “You okay?”

“Of course,” says Eddie. “I don’t even remember it. I know it scared the ever-living shit out of me, but I don’t remember the details anymore.” He chuckles, mirthlessly, over the phone, and Richie’s seized with the desire to somehow reach through the phone and hug Eddie. 

Just hug him, really—wrap him up tight in his arms, let Eddie tuck his head in under Richie’s chin, feel his heart beat in time to Richie’s own. Maybe that would chase away the terror that still lingers in the corners of Richie’s brain, even as the details of the dream drain away into the foggy recesses of his mind. Certainly it would chase away the fear in Eddie’s own voice.

“When I woke up, I just—I dunno. I needed to hear someone I knew.”

“Well, here I am,” says Richie. “I don’t remember my dream either, but I know it was fucked up as all hell. I nearly barfed on my floor.”

“Oh, ew,” says Eddie.

“Yeah, I know, and this late too,” says Richie, relaxing into his pillows. “Think it’s a sign I gotta stop doing so much research?”

“Probably,” says Eddie. “Can’t be healthy for you, having all that shit about crime and the supernatural rattling around your brain. Especially the really gruesome shit.”

“Probably,” Richie agrees, and tables that suggestion. Maybe he does need a break from all the research. He’s not the only writer on this show, Francine’s a good researcher too, even if she keeps getting caught up in theorizing a lot. “Although—I did find a couple of interesting urban legends.”

“Shoot,” says Eddie.

“There’s apparently a killer car out there that’s hunting down everyone who killed its owner and then some,” says Richie. “1958 Plymouth Fury with a custom paint job.” He drops into his best Vincent Price impression and says, “They say that at night, the Fury roams the back roads of small-town America looking for its owner, and it’ll run down anyone in its way!”

Eddie laughs over the phone, a burst of true laughter carried through the distance between them into Richie’s ear, a miracle of technology. God, Richie wishes he could see him laughing right now, see the way Eddie’s eyes crinkle at the corners. This tinny, canned laughter is a poor substitute for the sight of it, but it warms Richie’s heart anyway. “No fucking way,” Eddie says once he gets his breath back.

“ _You_ just might be its next target,” Richie says, keeping the voice up.

“Yeah fucking right, I’d just get on a fucking boat and lure it into the ocean,” says Eddie. “See how it fares with all that water fucking up the suspension and the engine.”

“Smart man,” says Richie, dropping the voice then. “I’d lure it to the junkyard myself. Get it all crunched up, take the pieces and scatter them all over America. Just to be safe.”

“That’d work too, I guess,” says Eddie. “Hey. I watched this comedian Ali Wong last week on the Tonight Show, I think you might like her. Her jokes run along the same lines as yours do.”

“I’ve met Ali, actually,” says Richie. “We weren’t on the same writing staff but we did run into each other a lot. We were miserable together at a mutual friend’s wedding. She’s fucking great, gonna have a Netflix special soon.” Then he pauses, and says, “Wanna come with me? She promised she’d let me have a ticket, and I can probably finesse her into letting me have another. You can watch her talk about the time I puked up on her shoes at a wedding.”

“And she _still_ talks to you?” Eddie asks. “If you ever puked up on my shoes I would just block you immediately on every account I have on social media.”

“Can’t avoid me in real life, though, we work together,” says Richie. “You already have me blocked on Twitter anyway, you asshole, unblock me so I can tweet wild shit at you.”

“Fuck no, man, if I unblocked you, the first thing you’d do is tell me you fucked my dead mom in a tweet,” says Eddie.

“Oh, Eddie Spaghetti—”

“Jesus _fuck_ how did the nicknames get _worse_ ,” Eddie huffs.

“—contrary to popular belief, I have enough brains to know that I’d get jumped on and called a necrophiliac for that in all seriousness by half of Twitter,” says Richie. “You’d think they’d never heard a mom joke before, Christ. No, the first thing I’m gonna do is describe, in graphic detail, how I had wild, mind-blowing, back-breaking sex with your aunt.”

“ _Yuck_ ,” says Eddie. “Aunt Debra would hop on a plane and gut you like a fish in front of all of us.”

“Not if she sees what I’m packing,” says Richie, salaciously, wiggling his shoulders. “Get it?”

Eddie laughs again, and even over the phone it sounds—nice. Objectively, it’s a laugh, there’s nothing really special about it, but something inside Richie’s ribcage kinda flutters at the sound anyway. “That’s why I’m never gonna unblock you,” he says, “it’s for your own safety. I like this job too much, and—I like you, despite the mom jokes and the shitty nicknames. It’d be a damn shame if my aunt killed you for slandering her.”

“Thanks for looking out for me and also your job, I guess,” says Richie. “But. Like. Do you? Want to go see Ali, I mean. She’s filming the special this September.”

“Sure,” says Eddie, easily. Richie quietly pumps his fist into the air in victory. “Paul’s always ragging on me to have more of a social life, anyway. Yeah, I’ll go.” There’s a pause, then he asks, “It’s not gonna cut into shooting, right? Like, I’ve got a ton of early call times, man.”

“It won’t,” Richie assures him. “I know she’s going to do it over the weekend, just because she’s got so much shit to do over the rest of the week.”

“Oh, good,” sighs Eddie. “Hey, Rich?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” Unbidden, the image of Eddie’s smile, soft and small, springs into the forefront of Richie’s mind, so clear behind his eyelids that Richie’s breath catches in his throat. “For talking to me. I know this is pretty irregular, considering our working relationship, but—you were the only person I could think of to call about this.”

Richie breathes out slowly, a weird giddiness bubbling up in the pit of his chest and mingling with the sadness weighing his shoulders down, because—well, it’s Eddie. He should have more people than just Richie to talk to, about this shit, although Richie can’t really say he _minds_ having Eddie’s attention. Kinda likes it, even.

“You can call anytime,” he says. “I won’t always pick up, you know how it is, but I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

“Same here,” says Eddie. “If you need something, just—call me, Rich.” He yawns on the other end of the line, and says, “Sorry for keeping you up, but—thanks, again. For talking to me.”

“ _De nada_ ,” says Richie. “Sweet dreams, Eds. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

“There aren’t any bed bugs, I checked,” says Eddie, and Richie is not surprised to hear that. Eddie is the most health-and-safety-conscious person he’s ever met, of course he’d check if there were any bed bugs in his depressing basement home. “Good night, Richie.”

“Good night,” Richie echoes, and stares up at the ceiling after Eddie hangs up.

Then he turns over, puts his phone back down on the drawer, and shuts his eyes.

This time, when he dreams, he dreams of a hammock underground, and a boy with a touch that sets fires under Richie’s skin.

  
  


\--

**Molly**

_**Today** 9:26 AM_

You forgot your lunch. I’ll be coming by the set to drop it off. Please tell them to let me in.

thnx babe ur a star

 _ **Today** 1:27 PM_  
u saw that too right

Mr. Kaspbrak and Mr. Tozier? Ja. They seem like very close friends to me.

VERY VERY close  
tbh i think theyr either already fucking or theyr dancing around it but either way  
its been hell  
their idea of flirting is trying to annoy each other to death and its dragging in the rest of us

Is this really a problem?

nah im just bitching u kno me babe  
theyr p professional otherwise besides reverting to 13yos in five feet of each other  
but if i have to hear tozier make a joke about mrs kaspbraks tits one more time im going to strangle him and kaspbrak both and no jury would convict me

I thought you LIKED drama and comedy. Wasn’t that why you took this job?

haha caleb  
u try dealing w inept flirting for weeks see how u manage by the end of shooting

I dealt with your flirting for two years, and I seem to have managed well enough.

u had to be told i was flirting  
doesnt count  
thnx for lunch btw where do u wanna meet up for dinner

Jester called me and is asking if you are free for a double date with her and Beau tonight. Are you?

fuck YEAH  
id never pass up an opportunity to fuck w beau are u kidding

\--

“And _cut!_ That was beautiful, you guys, just absolutely _perfect_. Take fifteen while we set up the next scene…”

Richie looks up from his phone, just in time to watch Eddie walk off the set and drop into the seat next to him. “That seemed hard,” he says, quietly.

“Eh, not really,” says Eddie, dabbing at his tears with some tissue. The hypoallergenic stuff they use on babies, if Richie recalls correctly. “It’s called acting, you should try it sometime.”

“Nah, I’ll just stick to writing,” says Richie. “Seems like too much work.”

“He says, having stayed up late working on this season,” Eddie says.

“Being a writer’s hard work already!” Richie says, throwing his hands up. “You’ve seen us work, you know how hard it is.”

“Really?” Eddie says. “Because from my perspective it looked like an excuse to sit around and eat donuts.” He sits up and leans closer towards Richie, squinting at his phone screen, and Richie tips it towards him. “Is that Scrabble? Are you _losing_ Scrabble? Holy fuck, man, aren’t you a writer?”

“I can’t make the words happen under pressure and with limited letters!” Richie mock-complains. “Who the fuck do you think I am, Dr. Seuss? You think I can write a script with only fifty words to use?”

“Okay, how about just one scene and seventy words?” Eddie says. “Whip me up a scene with only seventy unique words, and _maybe_ I’ll consider eating one of those fucking heart attacks you call a double-double!”

“In dialogue or does it need to include the stage directions?” Richie asks, unable to stop himself from grinning at Eddie, cocksure. “And I’m not gonna do it for a _maybe_ , Eds, I’ll only take a sure thing—”

“What are you guys up to now?” Veronica asks behind them, and Richie very nearly jumps out of his chair, fumbling with his phone. “Scrabble? Shit, Rich, you’re a writer, you should be better at that than you are.”

“See!” Eddie all but shouts, pointing at him. “I fucking told you! I fucking told you!”

“Gang up on me, why don’tcha,” Richie huffs. “Get the kids, M&M&M, and Tracie _and_ the supporting actors in here, really make it a roast, why don’tcha. Fuckin’ assholes.”

“Tracie likes you too much,” Eddie informs him. “So does Manny, god only knows why. They’d be too nice to you.” He looks up at Veronica, and says, “What’s up?”

“I need to borrow Richie for a minute,” says Veronica. “Netflix execs.”

\--

There is one Netflix executive waiting for them outside the studio, but Veronica foists him off on a lesser producer pretty fast, so Richie figures that whatever Netflix wants, it can’t be as serious as Veronica seemed to imply it had been to Eddie. It’s serious enough, though, that she leads him towards a little narrow alley between studio buildings, the kind people sneak into either for illicit affairs, illicit smoking, or something else that’s illicit.

“Ronnie,” says Richie, quietly, “you’re not—”

“I’m not here to smoke and even if I were, I wouldn’t offer you a single cigarette,” says Veronica, her fingers shaking with the desire for one. “But god, what I wouldn’t give for one.”

“You okay?” Richie asks.

“Not really,” says Veronica, rubbing at her temples. “Just—it hasn’t been a good day. Someone I knew back in high school sold some story to the press and mentioned me by name in it—”

“Oh, fuck,” says Richie, leaning down to take her shoulders, “listen, whatever they’re saying, we’ll ignore it and it’ll just blow the fuck over—”

“ _You_ ignore it,” Veronica counters. “I’ll—work something out. It’s Heather Duke, I can weather her slinging some shit at me for the bad choices I made at seventeen. Besides, the article wasn’t even about me, it was about Heather _McNamara_.” She smiles, but there’s no real humor in it. “Fucking shitheel, that Duke.”

“You know too many Heathers,” says Richie. “McNamara’s your ex, right?”

“Yeah, she called me crying just hours ago,” says Veronica. “I need to go check on her after this. Her management team’s trying to keep an eye on her so she doesn’t do something stupid, but they don’t _know_ her like I do.” She sighs, and tucks some stray strands of hair behind her ears, one hand fluttering towards her jacket pocket as if seeking a packet of cigarettes. “No, I just—you know how Eddie’s divorced and he and his ex fucking hate each other?”

“Yeah?” Richie says. “She’s the reason why he’s living in someone’s basement.”

“He’s what?” Veronica says. “Okay, I didn’t know that. He never said that to me.” She huffs out a breath. “Are you _sure_ you’ve never met before?”

“I—think so,” says Richie, a little uncertain. “I’d know.”

“Well,” says Veronica, “he’ll take it better from you than he would from me, I think.” She fishes a folded-up paper from her sling bag, and says, “Here. He’s going to want to hear about this, I think.”

Richie unfolds the paper, scans the headline printed: _TV Star “Lied to Me”, Claims Soap Star Ex-Wife_. Accompanying it is a picture of Eddie, getting a drink and smiling at—some guy, Richie thinks. He’s seen the guy before on some talk show, promoting something called _In The Cold Light of Day_ based off of a nonfiction true crime book written by someone named Mike Hanlon, but the name escapes him at the moment.

His stomach twists into an ugly knot, just seeing the picture. It twists into more when he reads the article.

“Did she just out him?” Richie says, looking up at Veronica, fear working its claws into his heart. “Did she just—”

“I don’t _know_ ,” says Veronica. “It’s likely that the picture’s just being misconstrued, and she’s bullshitting for—revenge? These two have never exactly been the poster child for post-divorce relationships, you know.”

Richie shivers. Yeah, he knows. God, does he know. Eddie’s painted a detailed enough picture of his and Myra’s marriage that Richie is more than a little concerned, just by hearing about it after the fact. “So—what, you think I can talk to him about this?” he asks, his own hands shaking now. God, he wants a drink. “Me? This is my worst fucking nightmare happening to him, and he’s probably not even—”

“You’re his best friend on the set,” says Veronica.

“I wouldn’t say that,” says Richie.

“I would.” Veronica looks up at him, her dark eyes as sure as the sunset. “You two _get_ each other. You drag him places and he gets in your space, and—you know, at the start of this, I was worried you two wouldn’t get along?” She laughs, now, a little rueful. “But you two love each other like you’ve known each other your whole lives. If I didn’t know any better I’d say you two have been friends since you were kids.” She crosses her arms and sighs. “You’re the best person to talk to him about it,” she says, “and I have a feeling you’re the best shoulder he can cry on about it. You _care_ about him.”

“You do too,” says Richie.

“Well, yeah,” says Veronica, “but you’re the one he gravitates to. And the only one he told about living in a basement, apparently.” She sighs. “Plus I have my own person to look after, on top of this show,” she says.

“What, you’re going now?” Richie asks. “Shit, am I supposed to tour the Netflix guy around?”

“God, no, that’s why I foisted him off on someone other than you,” says Veronica. “And I’m not going right now, but I’ll be clocking out early.” She pats him on the shoulder and says, “Just—talk to him.”

\--

“Oh, hey!” says Eddie, looking up from his script when Richie comes back. There’s a red pen tucked behind his ear, which is weirdly cute, really. (Cute?) “I thought it’d take you longer than that, so I’ve been fucking around with some of the lines a bit. Punched them up for you, you’re very fucking welcome.”

“You should be the writer,” Richie says, dryly. He drops into the seat next to Eddie again, lets out a tired sigh.

“The exec didn’t rake you and Veronica over the coals, did he?” Eddie asks, frowning. “He shouldn’t, by the way, we’re making something good here.”

“No,” says Richie, pushing a hand through his hair. “Hell, Ronnie didn’t even talk to him, she just foisted him off on another producer.”

“But she said…” Eddie starts, then he pauses. “Rich? What did you guys talk about, really?”

“She asked me to talk to you about something,” says Richie. “It’s your ex.”

“Oh,” says Eddie, his lips pressing together into a thin line. “What’d Myra do this time?”

“I think it’s better if I show you,” says Richie, fishing out the paper Veronica gave him and passing it to Eddie. “Um. You gotta know, Eds, all she says is just—bullshit, no matter what she thinks of you.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything for a while. The paper crumples in his hands, and Richie can swear he sees a muscle twitch in Eddie’s jaw, but when Eddie passes it back to him, all he says is, “Thanks for telling me, Rich.”

“Fucked-up thing,” says Richie, quietly, “to do to someone you married.”

“A lot about our marriage was fucked up,” says Eddie, “but—no, actually, I know why she’s doing this.”

Richie frowns, because—well, he’d sort of figured it was just more of the same shit all ugly Hollywood breakups are made of. “Well, why would she be pulling this shit?” he asks.

“Because she wanted to meet up with me about something,” says Eddie. “I don’t know what, but from what I know of her, and I know her too well, she’d be trying to—to pull me back into her fucking orbit again, because everyone else walked away. Ask for money, and then ask if I wanted to meet up again, for old times’ sakes, and then so on and so on until she’s worked her way back into my life.” He huffs out a mirthless laugh, and says, “Because she’d rather be miserable with me than happy by herself. Because together we’re fucking toxic, but at least we’re _familiar_ to each other. And then I told her to fuck off.”

“Holy shit, really?” Richie asks.

“Well, not—I didn’t tell her _fuck off_ literally, but I was definitely a lot shorter with her than I—maybe should’ve been?” Eddie sighs and slumps in his chair, his eyes darting quickly around like he’s trying to suss out who else in the studio might’ve read the article. Richie glances around, too, but no one seems to be paying much attention to them. “It was a bad day, and then she texted me out of nowhere so we could meet up for old times’ sakes, and she could buy me lunch. She said she knew me better than I knew myself, and I told her she didn’t and could she please just leave me alone. And now this. I mean, what the fuck is she trying to say? And pulling somebody else in too, what the hell?”

“Wait, do you not know this guy?” Richie asks, leaning over to point at the other man in the picture.

“Oh, no, that’s Thomas Lane,” says Eddie, and oh, yeah, that’s the guy’s name—Tommy Lane, Richie remembers now. He’d been absolutely riveted by Lane’s _Black Mirror_ episode, a dark tale of mistaken identity and daddy issues wrapped up in an hour-long episode. “He wanted to ask me if I was willing to try out for a role in _In The Cold Light of Day_.”

A knot in Richie’s gut loosens. “So he wasn’t—” he starts.

“We weren’t on a date,” says Eddie, “because I’m not _gay_.” He pauses, then adds, hurriedly, as the knot in Richie’s gut tightens once more, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Yeah, nothing wrong with it,” says Richie, praying his voice doesn’t sound as strangled as he thinks it does. What the _fuck_ is up with him today? Is he—Why does he feel so _disappointed_ that Eddie’s not gay? For fuck’s sake, the guy married (and then got divorced from) a woman! “But hey, I’m—proud of you. Sticking to your guns when your ex came calling, trying out for a new role—”

“I don’t know if I’m trying out for that role yet,” says Eddie, running his teeth over his bottom lip.

“You should,” says Richie.

“What if there's a schedule conflict with this show?” Eddie asks, looking up at him now, and god, those _eyes_.

“Then we’ll figure something out,” says Richie, “but let’s be honest, Eddie, if this season goes well, Netflix’ll give us a long while to write the second season. You have a fuckton of time until then.” He nudges Eddie’s shoulder and says, “You want that role? Fucking get it, man. I believe in you. And this?” He takes the paper from Eddie, and folds it back up to stuff into his jacket. “Is just noise. Fuck your ex, she’s clearly just being an asshole, and if this were true at all she’d be an even bigger one.”

“Good thing it’s not,” says Eddie, massaging his temples now as his phone dings. “Oh, great, my agent found it.”

Ah, fuck. “What’s he saying?” Richie asks.

“He wants me to call him,” says Eddie, standing up now and tapping away on his phone screen. “To talk about how we’re gonna have to spin this, I’m guessing.” 

It’s at that moment that some of the lighting technicians and grips pass by just behind him, lifting one of the spotlights while Ripton follows after them. For some godforsaken reason, the spotlight’s still on. Richie’s about to flag down one of the other producers about that when he looks back at Eddie, and his breath catches in his throat.

He’s seen Eddie backlit, before. Hell, he’s seen Eddie in all kinds of lighting before, watching him act. But the light bounces off his hair, makes it almost glow in the studio, and Richie’s breath snags on a hook in his throat. His heart pounds against his ribcage. The world narrows down to Eddie, only Eddie, not acting, not playing a role, just being himself, waiting for his agent to pick up.

_Oh,_ he thinks, a little dazed. God, the timing could not be any worse. _Well. Fuck me._

\--

**flying solo** _@northernqveens_  
wait is @EKaspbrak76 actually gay now or what

**mary grey’s pink prom dress** _@mariangrey_  
 _Replying to flying solo_  
“or what” he just released a press statement https://t.co/5uNS35kf tldr “no comment”

**flying solo** _@northernqveens_  
 _Replying to mary grey’s pink prom dress_  
that’s a lot of words for “no comment” dude is WORDY

\--

**eduardo**

_**Today** 8:24 PM_

just saw your statement.

you okay?

yeah I’m fine I just  
after our divorce I really didn’t think there was anything left for either of us to throw at each other’s faces but hey  
guess I was wrong  
you know what’s really getting to me, though?

no?

not a mind reader here, eds.

I don’t know if she’s wrong  
when she said she knew me better than I knew me.  
I’ve been scared shitless to know myself for basically all of my life  
between all the medical shit and the marriage and the mom thing  
so what if she was right?  
what if she’s the only person who knows what’s best for me?  
what if she was the only one who could fix me?

bullfuckingshit.

you don’t need fixing from anybody else, man. at least no one without a degree in psychology and a license to use it.

you said it yourself anyway: your marriage was toxic as fuck and if she knew what was best for you she wouldn’t have married you in the first place, right?

like there had to be SIGNS pre-marriage, right?

clearly you have never had a long-term relationship in your life

tried it, did not work out super great. so you have a point.

did you really not notice?

not judging. judgement-free zone right here.

I just  
she was right there.  
and that’s what people do at that age, they find someone and they get married.  
and she wasn’t my mom.  
in retrospect though  
that was a spectacularly bad idea and I shouldn’t have done it  
but I really thought it was the safest bet I could make.  
I’ve always made the safe bets.

but now you’re divorced and you’re on a horror comedy show created by a washed-out comedian and run by his college roommate.

i’m just saying, man. the safe bet did not work out but the risky bet did this time.

you should take this shot. worst thing that happens, lane turns you down, and so what?

there’s plenty of other offers out there.

and you’ve always got a role in my shows for what it’s worth.

the worst thing that happens is I get blacklisted again because Myra went and pulled that shit  
it’s happened before, just sans the implied homosexuality.

fuck that, ronnie and i and everybody else on this crew have your back.

anyway it’s a shitty thing to do with or without the implied homosexuality. this shit is private. she shouldn’t have dragged it out.

yeah well I took a public potshot at her private shit during our divorce so it’s not like I’m any better.  
and don’t say that wasn’t a shitty thing to do bc it was and you know it.

would you do it now?

no  
I’m really fucking tempted though.

want me to distract you?

god yes please.

there’s a japanese ghost monster lady that wears a surgical mask and goes up to people randomly.

asks them “hey am i pretty?”

and if they say yes, she rips her mask off and her cheeks are slit open and she goes “OKAY BITCH AM I PRETTY NOW!?” and if you freak out she kills you with scissors

if the first time she said it you said no, she kills you earlier!

that game’s rigged as fuck.

right! the only way to stop it is to tell her she just looks okay.

apparently that’s confusing enough to her that she stands there processing it while you haul ass away from her.

oh my god, that’s  
that’s the stupidest serial killer ghost  
holy shit, dude  
wait a minute is this stupid-ass serial killer ghost showing up next season??

originally no, but you know what?

now she’s the big bad, you’re fucking welcome.

that’s a TERRIBLE big bad.

evil clown is also a shitty big bad, but batman makes it work for him!

god never mention clowns around me  
I think one traumatized me in a past life so now whenever I see one I want to run like hell.

hah funny.

me too actually.

does that mean whenever you look in the mirror you’re overwhelmed with the urge to run away?

big words from a man whose fate i hold right in my hands.


	3. 2015 - III.

Eddie’s never had friends like this before.

Yeah, it’s sad, he knows. He gets it. It’s sad and pathetic and weird. By his age he should’ve had at least a couple of close friendships, people he could depend on. Could’ve used some when he got blacklisted by over two-thirds of Hollywood. Definitely could’ve used someone just to talk to during his marriage. Maybe if he did he’d have gotten out of it sooner. Maybe if he did he wouldn’t have gotten in it in the first place.

“You texting a girl or something there, Eddie?” Paul asks, squinting at Eddie over his breakfast of eggs and bacon. It’s days after Eddie released the press statement in response to Myra’s bomb, and Paul’s been a real help, blocking all the questions coming from the press about it and calls from Myra herself.

So Eddie bites back his first, snappish response ( _yeah, your mom_ ) and says instead, “Just Richie, that’s all.”

“Him again,” says Paul, with the sigh Eddie’s come to recognize as the usual reaction to Richie. Which is fair. Richie had warned Eddie from the start about how unprofessional he could get, after all. “I still don’t get how you two got so close so fast. Did you really not know who he was before this show?”

“Contrary to popular belief,” says Eddie, a little testy, “I can make friends, Paul.”

Paul holds his hands up, and says, “Relax, Kaspbrak, don’t bite my head off. Fuck, I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“Don’t you have a little bird named Misery to look after?” Eddie asks, a little snidely. He regrets the tone the moment his words come out, wincing when they hang in the air between him and Paul.

“One day I won’t have to look after the damn bird anymore,” Paul grumbles, pushing his chair back and standing up, massaging his temples. He doesn’t seem too mad at Eddie, for being snide, but then again Paul’s known him a while. Has known him since Eddie played Ian in one of the many, many adaptations of the _Misery_ series, all the way back in 2004. “In fact that day might come sooner than you think.”

“Oh shit, you’re actually gonna do it,” says Eddie, marveling. “You finally got the balls to kill her off!”

“Fucking finally, right?” says Paul, smirking a little at the thought. Eddie can’t blame him. Every time people quote _May Park_ at him, he winces—that movie had been such a bad idea, but he’d been too bedazzled by the paycheck to notice until it was too late. Now people think he’s either the druggie from _Park_ or Jiggy Onasis from _City’s Shield_ , and as much as Eddie likes Jiggy, he kind of wishes the guy didn’t get quoted to him half as much, and he hadn’t inhabited the role that long, just a season. Paul, who’s been writing Misery and company for goddamn _years_ , must be fucking fed up. They can never outrun the things and the people that made them, Eddie figures.

“Yeah, finally,” says Eddie. “Did your agent throw a shit-fit about it?”

“She did,” says Paul. “Mostly about the shit I’d get killing her off in childbirth—”

“ _Childbirth_ ,” says Eddie, a little incredulous. “I thought you were gonna kill her off some other way? Like old age or something.”

“Realistically,” says Paul, “women died in childbirth all the time back then.”

“You have a _ghost_ that tries to _kill the main characters,_ ” Eddie points out. “You left realism behind three books ago, man.”

“Well, it’s already been outlined, and I’ve already written the first version of the final scene,” says Paul, almost cheery even talking about something so morbid. 

Figures he would be. He hasn’t liked Misery in some time, and has been working on the side on another book. Something about a car thief, something Paul’s been chattering about since he started it. Eddie feels kind of awful he’s not more excited about it than Paul is, because he _likes_ cars, he’d been riveted when Richie told the tale of the sentient murderous Plymouth Fury all those days ago. It just sounds so goddamn pretentious coming from Paul.

“Too fucking late to change it. It’s a good way to cap off the series, isn’t it, Eddie?”

Paul probably doesn’t give half a shit, Eddie figures, what a good way to cap off his series would be, as long as it’s _capped_. “I know a couple thousand people who’d say otherwise,” he points out.

“Fuck ‘em,” says Paul. The phone rings, and he squints at it before saying, “Want me to take this one?”

“Yes, please,” says Eddie, tiredly. If there’s anything he’s looking forward to when the shitshow that’s Misery’s last book gets released, it’s when people stop calling around about that _fucking_ article and start calling around about Paul’s _fucking_ book. He’ll swap roles with Paul then, be the one fielding all the calls and fending off the reporters while Paul goes drinking and comes back with a girl on his arm.

Paul goes, all but skipping, to the landline he keeps by the entrance. A moment later, he hollers down, “Eddie! It’s your ex!”

Eddie nibbles at his eggs, and waits exactly ten seconds before Paul cheerily says, “Sorry, he’s busy. Now stop fucking calling me.” Then he hears Paul slam the phone back into its cradle, a whistled rendition of _You Don’t Mess Around With Jim_ drifting into the dining room as Paul strolls back inside.

“She didn’t give you too much trouble, did she?” Eddie asks.

“Nope,” says Paul. “Now finish your eggs and get going, I need to do some writing—”

“Uh-huh, sure,” says Eddie, skeptical. He’s seen Paul day-drinking, and he’s had to play the middleman for the guy to his publisher to buy time. Paul’s a good writer, but he’s _terrible_ at keeping a deadline.

“—and you are impeding its progress,” says Paul.

“The writing progress or the drinking progress?” Eddie asks, dryly.

“Either!” says Paul.

So Eddie finishes his eggs, gets his coat, and goes through the back door. While most have figured out by now that he’s living at Paul’s oversized Beverly Hills house (so many rooms for _two people_ , let alone one person living by himself), he’s pretty sure no one’s figured out just how to catch him coming and going just yet. Paul’s back door is hidden well out of sight, although it does mean Eddie has to park farther than he’d like from the house.

There’s a paparazzo waiting near a lamp post. The second Eddie steps into his view, he straightens up, camera already held at the ready.

Eddie holds up one middle finger, and shouts over the pap’s offended groan, “Stalk someone else, asshole!”

\--

He meets Richie at Casilda.

It doesn’t happen often, that. It turns out Richie goes to a lot of places besides Casilda, so Eddie doesn’t always see him there, but when he does show up, he always reserves a seat near a wall plug, which in Eddie’s opinion is far better than a window seat, and far more of a lifesaver.

Richie’s halfway through a hearty breakfast of sausages and eggs when Eddie slides into the seat across from him. His eyes flick upward from his meal, and a smile spreads across his face, like rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds. There are dark smudges under his eyes, and his bedhead has only been somewhat tamed, but somehow none of that really matters to Eddie. Which, wild, he knows. Usually he needs the people he meets with to at least pretend to be presentable, but Richie bends all of Eddie’s rules and endears himself to him anyway.

God, and here he thought he would hate Richie from day one, when Richie had stood up and made that stupid joke about his mom. But Richie’d taken out the jokes Eddie had complained about, and had started taking him out to lunch at places Eddie had never considered before, for either his or Myra’s health, and had somehow worked his way under Eddie’s skin and refused to fucking _leave_. And the hell of it is, Eddie doesn’t want him to, because Richie— _sees_ him.

Richie sees _him_ , Eddie Kaspbrak. Not the roles, not the scandal-laden divorce that’s followed him around like a dead albatross hanging from his neck, not his weakness (like his mom, like Myra), just him. Just Eddie.

It’s a rare thing for someone to see him and want to be friends with him, asshole warts and rants about health and all. In fact, Eddie can’t really say it’s ever happened before. Paul tends to just tune him out whenever he starts working himself up, but Richie seems to _like_ it, seems to like starting arguments with Eddie and riling him up. Like a kid in the schoolyard, testing his boundaries.

Eddie kind of likes it, coming from him. It’s weird, but it’s as if he’s known Richie his whole life. Like there had been a hole in it that was the exact size and shape as one asshole writer and ex stand-up comedian, and now that Richie’s there he feels—not whole, not exactly, but a little more himself, somehow. More awake.

“Hey, Eds,” says Richie.

“Don’t call me Eds,” says Eddie, “you wouldn’t like it if I called you Dick.”

“You’d be surprised how many people call me a dick anyway,” says Richie. Then his smile fades, and he pushes his glasses up. “You okay?” he asks. “With the article and all?”

“Paul’s been screening all my phone calls and chasing Myra off,” says Eddie, “and I really oughta give my manager a raise with how she’s fending off all the reporters. It’s just—more of the same shit I got right after the divorce, I guess.”

“It’s _shitty_ is what it is,” says Richie.

“That’s Hollywood,” Eddie reminds him. “You know they love a shitshow.”

“Your life’s not a trashy reality show,” says Richie. “No matter what anybody else in Hollywood thinks. Just— _fuck them_ , they haven’t got a right to your personal shit.”

“Didn’t you do stand-up?” Eddie asks. “Isn’t that just you dragging up your personal shit to make people laugh at you?”

“Stand-up comedians are not honest people, Eds,” says Richie, pointing a fork at him. “Trust me, I used to be one, I know. We pick and choose what’s funny and we put that on stage, and the rest—the parts of us we can’t make funny—we stuff into a box to hide out of sight.” He spears a bit of sausage onto his fork, then pops it into his mouth. “Anyway, I’m one of many, _many_ people who couldn’t hack it.”

Eddie wants to shake him. Wants to ask him why the fuck does he think that he couldn’t hack it, because Eddie’s memorized Richie’s scripts, he _is_ funny. It’s the kind of funny that sneaks up on him, the kind that makes Eddie feel a little like a kid again, invincible in his youth. Or at least invincible when his mother wasn’t there to convince him otherwise. It’s just a little bit off-beat and a little bit unexpected, and it’s a lot funny. Or, you know, maybe he’s just biased.

He says, instead, “I’ve been through this before. I can handle it again. At least this time I have a job, you know?”

“As long as the show runs and you want it, you’ve got a role,” Richie says. “No matter what shit gets slung at your face.”

Eddie smiles, as his latte is deposited in front of him. “That’s all I need,” he says. “I dunno, I just—I had some idea, you know? I got this role in some little miniseries about a superflu, and I just… _knew_ it’d hit it big.”

“ _The Stand_?” Richie asks.

“Yeah, that one,” says Eddie, taking a sip of his coffee. “You know something funny?”

Richie leans forward, all interest, his blue eyes focused all on Eddie. It tickles something inside Eddie, to have Richie’s attention all to himself like this. “Yeah?” he asks.

“I lied to my mom about the role I got in it,” Eddie says, and it’s the first time ever he’s confessed to that—he’d always neatly sidestepped the issue in any interviews if it ever came up, and it rarely did. He’s never offered this information before, but something about Richie just pulls it out of him. Something about Richie is trustworthy, somehow. More than that, a part of Eddie is _sure_ : he knows him. Somewhere deep down, he knows Richie Tozier. “I lied to her about basically everything about the show. I didn’t want her to come in and fuck it up, because I felt—I don’t know, I just knew that was gonna be _it_ for me, and if she tried to push me off it I’d never be able to get a role like Larry Underwood again.”

“Holy fuck, that’s some balls,” Richie marvels.

“She only found out after I got cast and signed the contract,” says Eddie, with a small smile, remembering the giddy elation he’d felt stepping out of that building, knowing his mother couldn’t do shit-all now that he’d signed a legally binding contract. Sonia Kaspbrak had been furious, to say the least, but Eddie had managed to convince her that it was too late to do anything about it, because he had Signed A Contract, as it were. The only time she had ever been more furious was when Eddie had started dating Myra, and some rebellious part of Eddie had thought, _good._

He’s a terrible son. He was also a terrible husband. He is not, generally, a great guy, personality-wise.

But Richie snickers, and says, “Say, Kaspbrak, how’s it feel walking around with great big brass balls in your pants?”

“Fuck you,” says Eddie. “Your show? It feels like that.”

“Like _The Stand_?” Richie asks, raising an eyebrow. “I got no idea what you mean, man. _Stand_ is post-apocalyptic horror drama shit, _Night Shift_ is urban fantasy comedy with like, a dash of horror for flavor.”

“Not what I meant,” says Eddie, sipping at his coffee. How to explain? “It feels _right?_ ” he says, although—that isn’t quite the right way to say it, is it. It does feel right, working on _Night Shift_ , it does feel almost magical the same way it did when he was acting on _The Stand_ , but he feels more like—like a version of himself that he actually likes on _Night Shift_ even when he isn’t acting. The feeling of rightness had always leached out after the day, but here it’s as though he was meant to be here, working with Richie. “It feels like I’m supposed to be on your show,” he says.

“Like—you were fated to be on my show or something?” Richie asks, raising his eyebrows.

Eddie sighs, and shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t believe in that shit, honestly. But I’m trying to rely on my own judgment more, and I think—there’s something about your show that makes me want to stick around.”

“Like my pretty face?” Richie asks, striking a small pose and fluttering his lashes at Eddie.

Eddie snorts out a laugh. Richie looks ridiculous like that, obviously trying too hard. “You look nothing like Pamela Anderson,” he says.

Richie’s expression shutters, going carefully blank. His mouth twitches upward into a smaller smile than before, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Something Eddie can’t quite read lurks in those blue eyes. “I guess that’s true,” he says.

Eddie’s gut twists into a knot. He’s said something wrong, he’s sure of it immediately, and now he’s out on thin ice, if he doesn’t say the right thing he’ll lose his job and he’ll lose _Richie_ , lose this—this first real friendship that he’s made in fucking years, and he can’t lose that. He just _can’t_.

And then Richie says, his tone casual, “Out of curiosity, what’re you sticking around the show for? If it’s not my pretty face. Is it Tracie Thom’s? Is it Ronnie’s? Is it _Ilse’s_ , because I gotta warn you, her dad might have just the one arm but he was ready to strangle the last guy who broke her heart anyway.” 

And there’s that mischievous twinkle back in his eye again, his smile a real thing once more. Eddie relaxes, breathing a sigh of relief.

“It’s not a pretty face, dickhead,” he says, his ankle knocking against Richie’s. “It’s—the environment, I guess. First time in a long time I’ve felt I could stay on a show for a while.” A lot of his roles have been guest spots and one-season roles, but _Night Shift_ is different, he can feel that. Actually, fuck feeling it, he’s _certain_ of it. This show is going to be a success. “Credit where credit’s due,” he adds, “some of it’s because of you. _Some._ ”

“You flatterer,” says Richie. “I wrote the fuckin’ role.”

“Ilse was the one who cast me,” Eddie says.

“Off _my_ notes,” says Richie.

“She said she had a shortlist of six actors,” says Eddie.

“And if I knew you were on that list I would’ve totally told them to pick you,” says Richie, and Eddie rolls his eyes heavenward.

“You didn’t even know who I fucking was,” he reminds him. “And then the first thing you did was imply you fucked my mom—”

“ _Imply_ ,” Richie scoffs, and oh, shit, Eddie just knows he’s going to say it, here it comes, as inevitable as a storm on the horizon, “I didn’t imply shit-all, _son_. I just broke the good news about me and your mom.”

“You are literally my fucking age,” huffs Eddie, “you do _not_ get to call me _son_ —”

Richie leers at him, and says, “Aw, kiddo, why so glum?”

Eddie pushes his chair back, pretending to start to stand, and says, “I take it back, I’m resigning effective immediately, fuck you—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” says Richie, leaning forward to catch Eddie by the wrist, and his fingers are warm and calloused around Eddie’s wrist, his hand is _big_ , holy shit. “ _Hey_ , don’t break your old man’s heart like this.”

Eddie blinks down at Richie’s hand. His fingers encircle Eddie’s whole wrist, and Eddie might not be heavily muscled but he’s not exactly tiny and delicate-boned either. He’s average-sized, and Richie is freakishly tall and apparently his hands are proportionally big and—warm. Very warm.

Eddie stays very still. He could break Richie’s hold at any time, sure. It’s not like Richie is holding him very tightly, it’s just—up until now he hadn’t quite registered the size of Richie’s hands, and now that he has it’s all he can really think about. Like, Jesus, is there a Bigfoot in his family line or something? It’d explain not only the size but also the perpetual stubble and the hair. And the hands. Good god the _hands_. They’re writer’s hands, ink-stained and calloused from years of holding a pen, but there’s a strength in them that Eddie’s never seen from other writers. Sure, Paul’s got a nice, firm handshake, but it’s not—his hands aren’t this big.

Richie coughs, and Eddie snaps out of his, god, his fucking hand-induced spiral, Jesus fucking _Christ_. What kind of person laser-focuses on someone’s hands like that? Especially a friend’s hands? There’s nothing wrong with Richie’s hands, they’re just _big_ , why is he _freaking out_ , Jesus, Eddie Kaspbrak, you’re a shitty friend if you’re freaking out over your best friend’s hands. 

“You okay there, Eddie?” Richie asks.

“Fine,” says Eddie. It comes out slightly strangled, and he coughs. “I’m fine, just kinda—stressed, that’s all.” He pauses, then adds, “Because of the article. And my ex. It’ll pass.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Richie, full of understanding, folding up some bacon on his plate. “Is she still trying to contact you for a meet-up?”

“Probably,” says Eddie. “I blocked her phone number. And all her social media accounts.” Sure, he doesn’t want to see her hurt, but he also doesn’t exactly want to see her, either. “I have no idea what she’s going to do now. I’m—really hoping I don’t end up hearing from the hospital.”

Richie, his bacon halfway to his mouth, drops his fork. “Why the fuck would she be in the hospital?” he asks.

“She might get sick,” Eddie says, because—well, it’s happened a couple times before. “Or hurt herself by accident, or something.”

“This is a _grown woman_ we’re talking about, not a toddler,” says Richie. “If you don’t need her looking after you, it follows she probably doesn’t need you looking after her.”

That’s true, Eddie supposes. Still. “I don’t—fuck, man, I don’t _hate_ her, I still care about her,” he says. “That’s what happens when you share a life with someone for a long time, you care about them. Even if you don’t love them the way you should, you still end up caring about them, even if—even if objectively the way you treat each other is real shitty.”

“You’re not obligated to worry about her if she pulls this shit,” says Richie. “Hell, I think she just definitively proved she doesn’t care as much about you.”

“I just,” Eddie starts, then stops, and lets out a breath. Richie’s never been married. Hell, Richie’s never mentioned having been in a long-term relationship, so Eddie kinda doubts he knows a whole lot about living with someone so long that you end up caring about them, anyway. “I _know_ that,” he says, “fuck, I’ve known that since we divorced, and I’m not going to let her back into my life no matter what she does. But that doesn’t mean I don’t _care_ , anyway.”

“Even if she doesn’t care about you?”

Eddie wants to scream at him for that. He gets it. He _gets it_ , Richie’s being all protective and shit, Richie cares about him in such a way that it kind of baffles Eddie, how much he cares, but—god, that certain tone of his, like he knows just from one article, and just from Eddie, the entire character of a person? _You don’t know me that well,_ Eddie wants to snap. 

“She cares in her own way,” he says, instead, drumming his fingers against the table, “which is—fucked up, and terrible, and toxic, yeah. Everything about our marriage was fucked up and terrible and toxic, but, and here’s the thing that you don’t fucking get, it was _way better_ than living with my mom. At least Myra never fucked with my meds. She thought I had medical problems, and we definitely slung some shit at each other, but at least she never touched my pills.”

Richie goes still, then, his eyes fixed on Eddie. “Jesus fucking _Christ_ ,” he says, and Eddie quickly realizes that he’d never told him, outright, about his mother actually trying to meddle with his medicine. Only that she’d made him think he needed them. “You saying your mom tried to fuck with your pills?”

“She had _fake prescriptions_ written,” Eddie mutters, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. God. He hates his mother, a little, a lot, and still loves her despite that, and maybe that makes him a terrible son, a terrible abuse victim. “I know it’s bad. I know it’s all fucking terrible, from my mom to Myra. I’m not stupid, I’ve got eyes. I _know_ , Richie, I don’t—you don’t fucking have to point it out.”

Richie flinches back, then. “I didn’t—you’re not stupid, Eddie,” he says, “I never meant it that way. I think you’re brave. I think you deserve better.”

“You,” says Eddie, “don’t know that.” Because Richie’s never seen him after his divorce, bitter and angry and lashing out, never seen him at his lowest. 

Richie’s only known him, what, a few fucking months at most? They didn’t even know each other’s _existence_ four months ago. Eddie knows himself, knows that if he hasn’t found better by now then it’s not like he ever will. He’s a thirty-eight-year-old asshole about to turn a year closer to forty in just a couple of months. His time has long since passed.

“Maybe I don’t, but you’re _good_ ,” says Richie, reaching for his hand again. “You’re good. You deserve all the best, Eds, and it’s a fucking crime nobody’s given it to you.”

“What, you think you’ll give me all the best or something?” Eddie asks, a little more acidic than he means to be.

When Richie smiles, this time, it’s a ghost of his usual grin. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, where something much sadder lurks. “I wish,” he says, which is cryptic as fuck. Then he finishes off the bacon on his plate, and says, “I gotta go. Ronnie’ll want me for a meeting with the Netflix executives, we’re trying to find a composer for the show.”

“This early?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah, she has a shortlist,” says Richie, his eyes shuttered, keeping Eddie out. “I’ll see you later, Eds.”

\--

He does see Richie later, while they’re filming episode 6, one of the more horror-focused episodes of the show. “Based off all those wild stories about that hotel in Colorado that blew up thirty years ago, the one that had that movie made about it,” Richie had said about it once, while they were slurping up noodles at a tiny Japanese place and Eddie’s instant ramen-based expectations of noodles were being demolished. “I just used New York instead—it’s a lot scarier, in a city that never sleeps.”

“I heard about that,” Eddie had said, “didn’t the caretaker go insane and try to kill his family?”

“Yeah, but they made it out and he was the only casualty,” Richie had said. “Now there’s a camping site where the hotel used to be.” He had wiggled his fingers and said, in a voice that was as spooky as possible, “They say you can still hear the caretaker screaming, late at night.”

There’s definitely a lot of yelling now, Eddie thinks, knee-deep in fake blood as a recorded scream echoes. They’re filming the confrontation between Topher, Ezra, and Ezra’s brother’s ghost in the hotel bathtub, and Molly is doing an admirable job of looking terrified out of his wits, even drenched in fake blood and facing down poor Richard Madden in ghoulish makeup. “You can’t be here,” he whispers in character, “you _can’t be_. Carley—”

“ _You left me to die!_ ” snarls Madden, rising from the bathtub with wild eyes. Damn. “You left you left _you left_ —”

The recorded scream cuts through the air again, and Molly flinches away, his gun arm shaking convincingly, trained on Richard. “I didn’t mean to,” he says, “I didn’t, please, Carley, I was going to get _help_ —”

“He’s not real,” says Eddie, urgently, touching Molly’s arm, “Ez, listen to me, he isn’t _real_ , come on, man, look at me.” He turns Molly’s face away from Richard, hauls him towards the door, trying to wade through a fuckload of fake blood to do it. “It’s the hotel,” he continues, “it’s this—fucked-up hotel pulling shit out of your head, come on, man—”

“—not a man—”

“—Ez,” Eddie corrects, “think of—think of something _happy_. Like, like—”

Ah, fuck.

“Shit,” he says, “uh, like—”

“Cut!” calls Susan Delgado, the episode’s director. “ _Kaspbrak._ ”

“Sorry, sorry,” says Eddie, letting go of Molly, who snickers as he steps away towards Richard.

“It’s fine,” says Delgado, “take five, we’re all a little tired and the fake blood surely isn’t helping.”

Eddie gratefully stumbles out of the set, clapping Richard on the back as he goes. “Good job, man,” he says. “Sorry about all the fake blood.”

“Thanks,” says Richard, cheery, “and really, at least I’m not sweating in armor.”

Eddie shudders at the thought of it (all that sweat and all that dirt and in the damn _heat_ ), and goes. His eyes sweep the set, and he spots Richie with a pen and a notepad in the corner, scribbling something down. Before he knows it, he’s already coming over, pants and shoes dripping fake blood with every step.

Richie looks up first, jumps a little, and says, “Uh—Eds, hey.” He pushes his glasses up his nose, crossing his arms and straightening up, and Eddie remembers the strange note he’d left their morning meeting with. His heart wrenches, guilt tying a knot out of his guts. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got five minutes,” Eddie says. “I—you were acting weird, earlier.”

“Oh,” says Richie, scratching the back of his neck.

“You okay?” Eddie asks. “I know I dumped some heavy shit on you and in retrospect that was not my best moment—”

“Hey,” says Richie, and his hand reaches out to pat, awkwardly, against Eddie’s, the shape of a pen pressing briefly into his shoulder. “Hey, no, don’t be sorry. I’m your friend, I don’t mind that you told me all that. I just—” He stops, and runs his teeth over his bottom lip before pulling his lips up into a fake smile. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, giving Eddie a final pat before he lets go. “Just have a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

“You know you can tell me too, right?” Eddie asks.

Richie’s smile softens, then, turns just that slightest bit more real. “I do,” he says. “But some of it is—personal shit. The kind of thing nobody else can handle besides me.” He pauses, then adds, “You already know too much about me, I gotta keep an air of mystery up somehow.”

“Dickhead,” says Eddie, smacking his shoulder with the back of his hand, trying to ignore the hurt in his heart. Richie has offered enough of himself, and Eddie can’t ask him for more than what he’s willing to give. Just because Eddie’s stupidly open with him for some reason, beyond common sense, it doesn’t mean Richie feels the need to be the same way.

“Ow,” Richie says, not very convincingly. He sits back down in his chair, pouting exaggeratedly. Then he pauses, drops the pout, and says, quietly, “Eds—you know something?”

“What?”

“Besides Ronnie and the other writers, you’re the only one on this entire set who knows about Casilda,” Richie says. “And Ronnie knows about me burning out and going to rehab, because she had to help put that fire out.” He shrugs, a little self-conscious now, and says, “When people ask me where I went, I usually just tell them I had to go find myself, because if I told them the truth they’d treat me like a fucking time bomb or something, just an inch from falling off the wagon. You’re—You’re the only one I’ve actually _told_ about going to rehab.”

Something in Eddie’s gut loosens, then, the heavy weight on his heart easing off just a little, just enough. What relationship doesn’t have its secrets, after all, he supposes. Then again it’s not like he has any healthy models at all.

Still. It’s a start. He knows Richie’s secret, Richie knows his. If it’s—fairness, that his bruised-up worn-out heart wanted, then that’s what he’s got, and he doesn’t need more.

“Really just me?” he asks.

“Just you,” Richie confirms. “And Ronnie, she was there. My agent knows I took a mental health break, but I hired him a while after that mess ‘cause my last one dropped me, and he doesn’t need to know more.” He pauses, then says, “But if you wanna know more about me, all you need to do is ask away. Just—don’t tell anyone, and there’s things I just can’t tell you.”

And really, how can he pass this opportunity up? Even knowing Richie has shit he doesn’t seem to want to tell Eddie. “I won’t,” Eddie solemnly says. Then he pulls up the chair next to him, the one specifically for the supervising producer, and takes a seat. Guy’s nowhere in sight, and it is an awfully convenient chair. He’ll just stay here for about three more minutes, before he has to go back and get screamed at by the guy who died at a wedding on _Game of Thrones_. “How long have you and Ronnie known each other, anyway?” he asks. “Did you guys ever date?”

Richie snorts out a laugh. “Once, way back in college,” he says, “but it didn’t work out. She’s just—not my type.” He waves a hand in Veronica’s vague direction, and Eddie looks over to see her reaming out some poor fuck over something. “But we stayed friends after we graduated and stayed in touch. She got me a PA job on a movie she was an extra on.”

“You managed to stay friends _and_ coworkers with your ex this long?” Eddie asks. “How’d you fucking do it, man?”

“We weren’t always coworkers,” says Richie, “but—honestly if I knew I’d tell you. I avoid all my other exes like the plague, but I still had to live with Ronnie after the break-up, so we had to get real mature about that shit _fast_.”

That probably does help, Eddie supposes. It hadn’t been feasible for him, but in regular cases where both parties just don’t work together anymore, it sounds like good, solid advice. 

“Do you ever miss it?” he asks. “The relationship?” Because god help him, he misses the relationship far more than he misses Myra—the stability of it, the safety. It hadn’t been healthy, he knows that now, the safety was a noose around his neck that was suffocating him and he’d _needed_ to get out. But still. She had cared for him at his most vulnerable.

“Why the fuck would I?” Richie asks, baffled. “It fucking sucked for both of us, and she deserves a lot better than that.” He twirls his pen around his fingers, and says, “What we have right now’s good. For her and for me.”

Oh. “Quick question,” says Eddie, “if you break up with an ex— _is_ it normal to miss the relationship more than the person?”

“What?” says Richie.

“Is it—” Eddie starts, before someone taps him on the shoulder. He turns on his heel, and says, “Do I have to go back on now?”

“Yeah, you got two minutes,” says the PA, nodding towards the set, where someone’s carefully adjusting Molly’s costume again, so it looks exactly like it did at the beginning of the take.

“This’ll be quick,” Eddie promises, before turning to Richie again. “Rich?”

“I—don’t know,” says Richie, scratching the back of his neck. “No? I don’t think so, but take that advice with a grain of salt, it’s not like I’ve got the greatest track record with relationships.”

Maybe not. But something sinks into the bottom of Eddie’s stomach, as the PA leads him away from Richie. He doesn’t really know _what’s_ normal in a relationship—that’s something he’s been aware of for a while. But Jesus Christ, has being in the spotlight really blinded him that much, that he’s taking advice from Richie fucking Tozier? Richie

( _who used to call it Getting Off A Good One, who sometimes regaled them with stories about illicit bathroom meetings with Regina Brooks and that transfer student from Bangor, whatsername, who used to get laughed at whenever he would try to hit on a girl right in front of them but he never seemed to mind, did he, not as much as Eddie did_ )

fucking Tozier?

He blinks.

“Mr. Kaspbrak?”

Eddie shakes his head, the—the _visions_ slipping out of his memory, as fast as they came. “Yeah, I’m here,” he says. He looks back at Richie, trying to search for something, anything familiar about him.

Richie snaps off a lazy, two-fingered wave, then looks back down at his phone.

Eddie turns away. It’s probably just stress from work, or something.

\--

**Viva is waiting for Night Shift!!** _@laviebohemes_  
i’m @ ali wong’s taping for her new special and i think eddie kaspbrak and some tall guy with glasses are on a date?????

**but the lights go out.** _@movingforward_  
spotted Edd*e K**pbr*k hanging out w/ R**hie T*z**r in Toronto?? UHHHHH

\--

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie Tozier outside the Winter Garden Theatre in Toronto. Richie is grinning, open-mouthed, and giving a thumbs-up to the camera, his glasses slipping down his nose. Eddie is right next to him, also grinning, wearing a beanie. They’re both wearing Ali Wong’s merchandise: Richie has a shirt with BABY COBRA printed across his chest, and Eddie is wearing a hat with BABY COBRA printed on the front. If you didn’t know any better, you’d wonder if they were about to kiss.]  
 **eddie.kaspbrak1976** enjoyed Ali Wong’s new special! check it out when it drops on Netflix next year. also, check out Night Shift when it drops too. we don’t have Ali Wong yet but Richie is going to try to lure her in, apparently. #babycobra #aliwong #netflix #wintergardentheater #thanksforhavingustoronto #butnowwemustgo

\--

**Molly**

_**Today** 10:20 AM_  
max hey max  
MAXINE  
did you see eddies instagram???

uh yes I just did

and I have some questions for him and for Richie

also fuck you my name is MAX

is one of those questions “are you guys fucking or what”  
because im pretty sure they are

I would NOT be surprised at all

those two were tight from day one from what I hear

good for them if they are

right  
no way theyre not at this point  
i dont beeline to caleb the way eddie does when richies on set

bitch you do

like you dont ditch us when lucas shows his face around here

yeah duh doi

my husband is way more fun than you guys

except maybe Eddie but he keeps running out on us for Richie

how long have they known each other again???

honestly the way they act around each other I have no idea

Veronica said they only met after Eddie got cast but there is no way that’s true

I don’t take an actor I met just a few months ago to Toronto to watch someone make fart jokes for an hour

\--

 **HAPPENING IN HOLLYWOOD: SEPTEMBER 18**  
Looks like Soap Star Divorcee’s expanding his dating pool! An anonymous source has revealed that she spotted SSD in the audience for Hot New Comedian’s special, all cuddled up with HCD’s friend Washed-Out Comedian. Someone should tell SSD about WOC’s standup routines of yesteryear, where he drags his dates through the mud for fifteen minutes. Much like a less catchy Taylor Swift.

\--

Before Eddie knows it, they’ve made it to the beginning of October, just past his birthday, and the last two weeks of principal photography. For the first time in a while, he kind of wishes it could last just a little while longer.

The routine’s nice. He doesn’t have to get his agent to hit up audition after audition for a subpar job. He’s made friends, plural—Manny’s invited him out for drinks with the rest of the cast, and they have a group chat where Max and Molly try to out-spam each other with the weirdest shit. He _likes_ this job, feels like he’s got more creative freedom with his role now than he ever did before, even in his best roles. He’s grown kinda fond of cocky Topher with his smug smiles and myriad daddy issues under a thin veneer of humor, learning how to love again.

And then there’s Richie.

Oh, yes, the cast’s all good buddies, great friends, and sometimes Eddie lets them talk him into trying something new. But Richie is—Richie is his _best friend_ , and he hasn’t had one in, god, a very, very long time. So long that he can’t actually remember them, anymore. God, though, he must’ve really loved them, because every time his thoughts drift towards them—a rare occasion, because he doesn’t really think about his forgotten childhood that much—the grief wells up in his chest till it’s overflowing, until he feels as though he could drown in it.

Richie, though. Richie’s the closest thing Eddie’s come to that all-encompassing _love_ that he must’ve felt.

So—yeah. He’s not _excited_ about potentially losing the only connection he really has with Richie. Once they don’t have to work together anymore, he imagines Richie’s going to move on to other jobs, other shows for the time being. Maybe he’ll talk to the other writers about season two, but Eddie won’t be there. He’s not necessary to the writing process, as close as he’s gotten over the course of his time here. And Eddie is well aware he can be a difficult friend—between the info-dumping and the general asshole-ishness, he’s kind of surprised Richie still gravitates toward him every time they’re on set together.

But dammit, he’s selfish, and Richie’s the first best friend he’s made in a while. 

So on the second-to-last Thursday before they wrap for the season, just after finishing for the day, Eddie finds Richie fake-smoking right outside the set and says, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Not smoking,” says Richie, showing him the pack of candy cigarettes. “I haven’t smoked in _years_ , but sometimes I get the urge, and this is as close as I can get. Want one?” He shakes the pack in front of Eddie’s face, and says, “Come not-smoke with me, Eds.”

Eddie squints down at the candy cigarettes. There’s a study about them that links them to smoking actual cigarettes, later in life. 88% of current and former smokers interviewed in the study had said they’d used candy cigarettes, compared to the 78% of non-smokers who’d been surveyed. Some part of his brain is jumping up and down at the moment screaming about the dangers of cigarettes, it only takes just one before he’s down the road to lung cancer and rotting teeth and—

“Eddie?” Richie says, and that’s what tips Eddie over the edge.

He takes a candy cigarette, sticks it into his mouth, and makes a face. “This tastes _awful_ ,” he complains.

“Not as bad as an actual cigarette,” says Richie. “I got the chocolate version if you want any.”

“Oh, fuck yeah, give,” says Eddie, and Richie cheerfully forks over the pack. He sticks one chocolate cigarette in his mouth and sighs. “Yeah, much better,” he says.

“You’re a fiend for chocolate,” Richie observes, taking the candy cigarette out of his mouth with two fingers. Like it’s a real one. “Should’ve seen that.”

“Fuck off, everyone likes chocolate,” Eddie says, mirroring Richie. He’s never smoked in his life. He’s _faked_ smoking for roles, and he does it now, pretending to blow out smoke, but really doing it? Ha. He panics about coming into contact with asbestos. A chocolate cigarette is the closest thing he’ll ever let himself get. “Don’t you have that—chewing gum with the nicotine? Or patches?”

“Ran out three days ago,” says Richie. “I had to split them with some of the staff. Francine practically begged for some, and the editors damn near cleaned me out.” He twirls the candy cigarette between his fingers, and says, “Besides, I like the taste just fine.” He puts the cigarette back between his chapped lips, and leans back against the wall, stuffing his hands back into his pocket.

His mouth is—nice. Pinkish. Bit chapped, moist from spit. He’s not exactly trying to grow a beard, but he’s unshaven, stubble sprouting over the lower half of his face like a cactus. Girls probably like that, Eddie supposes, kissing someone with enough stubble to seem rugged. And his lips are actually very soft-looking. Appealing, in fact. His top lip’s like a perfectly-shaped bow, and Eddie wonders if any girl has ever noticed that. It seems strange that Richie’s not dating right now, with that mouth of his. Even with what he uses that mouth for.

“Have I got something between my teeth?” Richie asks, amused, and Eddie snaps out of his reverie fast, his cheeks burning. “I bet it’s lettuce. Fucking lettuce always gets stuck between my teeth, it’s a bummer.”

“Yeah,” says Eddie, strangled, “it is.” He shakes his head. “You don’t have anything stuck between your teeth,” he says, and pats Richie on the shoulder.

“You look like you’ve been rolling in the dirt,” says Richie, cheerfully.

“Your fault, you wrote the chase scene in,” says Eddie. It isn’t half as bad as he thought he would be, really, they’d only needed maybe four takes before the director was satisfied, and now they’re focusing on Manny and Tracie’s scene together. “You’re starting work on season two sometime soon, right?”

“Eh, informally, yeah,” says Richie. Now he bites into his candy cigarette and chews, thoughtfully. “After post-prod and reshoots. I’ll start bouncing ideas off Ronnie again, and if Netflix greenlights a second season I’ll work up preliminary outlines, and in the meantime I’ll get work on other shows. _The Simpsons_ likes what I turn in for them, usually.”

“What about that mockumentary series, what’s its name—” Eddie starts.

“ _Documentary Now_?” Richie says. “Those guys? Fuck them. One of the producers stole a role out from under me, I’m never gonna forgive him for that shit.”

Eddie snorts out a laugh, head thudding lightly against the wall. “Never thought you’d be the petty kind,” he says.

“I’m multidimensional,” says Richie. Then he pauses. “Hey, you got any jobs lined up after this?”

Eddie shrugs, and says, “Not really.” He waves a hand. “My agent found me a role on _Inside Number 9_. I’m gonna play a stay-at-home dad who goes insane over a shoe.” He’d read the script just yesterday, and then read it again, nearly giddy with the potential of this role. “It’s great,” he says.

“You gonna give me any spoilers?” Richie asks.

“Nope,” says Eddie, grinning up at nothing in particular. God, that moment when everything had clicked in his head how he was going to play this character—the work could be hard, sure, but sometimes moments like that made it all worth it. “But I can tell you, I read the script and it was _very_ good.”

“Fuck yeah! Everything’s coming up Eddie!” Richie cheers, holding his fist out. “Come on.”

Eddie indulges him, bumping his knuckles against Richie’s and even mirroring his little explosion. The smile on Richie’s face makes it worth it, makes warmth bloom in Eddie’s chest. 

“I’m excited,” he says, “yeah, it’s just for an episode, but it’s the kind of meaty role I’ve been dying for, you know? It’s dark and dramatic, but funny too—you’ll like the episode, I’ll bet.” He waves a hand at Richie, nearly smacking him in the face with the hand holding the chocolate cigarette.

“Careful, careful, I’ve already got shitty eyesight,” Richie says, batting away his hand. “That’s great. I’m proud of you, man, I’m glad you’re finally getting the roles you want.”

“Yeah, me too,” says Eddie, sticking the chocolate cigarette back into his mouth and biting off the end of it. “Hey. Uh. Rich?”

“Yeah-hm?”

“I don’t wanna wait until reshoots to talk to you again,” he says. “Once this wraps, we should meet up whenever we’ve got the time. That okay with you?”

Richie turns to look at him then, his brilliant smile softening. It puts Eddie in mind of a sunset on the beach, the last soft yellow light giving way to the night. His eyes, Eddie thinks, are very blue. Like the sky. Eddie sticks his sweaty hands back into his pockets, his stomach flipping strangely inside of him. “Yeah,” says Richie. “Actually—Carrie’s scheduled an open mic night, for two weeks from now. I’m thinking of doing fifteen minutes, just to keep my hand in. Wanna come watch? I can’t promise I won’t talk about your mom, but I can promise it’ll at least be funny.”

“If you make a joke about my mom I will tell the press about your bad _Game of Thrones_ opinions,” says Eddie, “and you’ll be ripped to shreds on Twitter by angry nerds. Do you want that? Do you?”

“Don’t throw me to the angry nerds,” says Richie, pretending to try and grab him by the lapels, “I’m begging you, if the crazy part of _Game of Thrones_ fandom finds out I think Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen shouldn’t get together because they’re both overrated, I’m fucked. I’ll have to get off of Twitter and run away to fucking _Maine_.”

“Not _Maine,_ ” Eddie says, on the verge of laughing. “God, no, not Maine. Maine is the embodiment of evil in a state, somehow.”

“Right!” says Richie. “I promise I’ll keep the jokes about dear old Mrs. Kaspbrak and her soft, pillowy tits between us if you’ll only keep me from getting torn limb from limb by rabid fans.”

“Fine, fine,” says Eddie, magnanimously. “And I’ll come to the open mic night. I’ve never seen any of your shows before.”

“And you absolutely shouldn’t,” says Richie. “My old shows sucked ass.” He pauses, then says, “I can’t promise this new one won’t suck, either, but if you’re there, I’ll have _one_ person laughing.”

Eddie can’t even dispute him on that. He’s laughed at too many of Richie’s jokes to be able to easily get away with kidding him about who. “You should set your standards higher,” says Eddie. “Get maybe three people laughing, then you’ll know you’ve made it.”

Richie smiles, a little. “Well, since you’re such an expert,” he says.

Eddie sticks the chocolate cigarette back into his mouth, savoring the flavor of it on his tongue. “After that,” he says, “you should let me take you somewhere.”

“Ooh,” says Richie, “where? A museum about health? A kale shake stand?”

“The kale shakes were one time,” Eddie says. “ _One time_ , you dick.” He bites down on the chocolate cigarette, snaps it in half now. “It’s a surprise,” he says, stalling because he actually doesn’t know where to take Richie. Somewhere important to comedy history, maybe? The man likes comedy. Or wherever they’re taping one of those paranormal investigation reality shows, Richie might cream his pants out of sheer joy and terror.

“Ooh, a surprise,” says Richie. “I’ll be waiting with bated breath. But I expect dinner first. Maybe In-n-Out.”

“Oh, fuck you,” says Eddie, pleasantly.


	4. 2015 - IV.

**Richie Tozier - Skirting Around an NDA - Casilda Open Mic Night**   
_Casilda Events_

Richie Tozier takes the stage to talk about NDAs, how much he hates them, and spoilers.

**VIDEO TRANSCRIPT**

[A small smattering of applause, as Richie takes the stage. If he’s nervous, he’s not showing it—he seems like an old pro at the stage.]

Hi, hi, hi. Good evening, folks, how’s everyone doing tonight? [A chorus of murmurs.] Good, good. I’m doing fantastic. I have no fucking love life, probably because my last girlfriend left me for someone who doesn’t jerk off to Facebook pages of our hottest friends, but I am the head writer for this little show about to drop on Netflix. Great, right? Go watch _Night Shift_ when it drops next year by the way, make all those all-nighters I pulled writing shit worth it, _validate my ass._ [Some laughter. Richie plays with the wire of his microphone.]

I love it, I really do. It’s been worth all the blood, tears, and virgin sacrifices so far, [pause for audience laughter to die down] you guys are really into virgin sacrifices huh. But anyway, it’s been worth all of that, and we’re crossing our fingers we get a season two, because this is the best cast and crew I have ever worked with in my entire life. I’m not exaggerating. I have so many stories to tell you guys about them, but I’m currently under an NDA, so I’m not allowed to discuss shit-all about the set.

I can, however, talk about the NDA itself. I know this ‘cause I cleared it with my lawyer and with the Netflix execs so I wouldn’t get my ass fired for breach of contract. Thanks, Nicky Wright, you’re a goddamn angel. Unlike the NDA, which sucks so much fucking _balls_.

[Startled laughter from the audience.]

For the uninitiated, an NDA’s a Non-Disclosure Agreement. Basically, you agree to keep your mouth well and truly shut about something, which is hard enough for me to do _without_ the legal consequences dangling over my head like the chandelier from Phantom of the Opera. Now that there are, it is downright _torture_.

See, I’m a creative type. And us creative types, us performers, we _love it_ when people talk to us about our work. We fucking live for that shit, okay? In fact, we love it so much, we’ve made it our entire fucking identity. We’re not just hanging our self-esteem on validation, we’re hanging our hopes, dreams, livelihoods, _our fucking identities_ on strangers tossing us compliments ‘cause we did so fucking good being dancing monkeys for them. [laughter] You guys get it! You know. You also know the downside to this. The second someone says, “hey, your shit’s not that good,” our entire fucking world view goes immediately down the shitter.

[He hangs his head, then speaks in a low, gravelly voice reminiscent of Eeyore.] I lost the foundation of my whole self. It wasn’t a very good one.

[Audience laughter. Richie’s smile could light up the room, and the tension in his shoulders seems to ease.]

I am a needy bitch, okay, we’re all needy bitches here. I _crave_ validation. I need it. I need it to live, literally, if people don’t like what I put out there, I’d have to resort to selling my body on the streets, and like—look! Look at this shit! [He gestures to his body.] I’m pale as a corpse and you could play tic-tac-toe on my forehead! Not to mention the beer gut, and the hair growing out of my ass. People are gonna look at me naked and they’re gonna run the other way, and I still wouldn’t get paid.

So as you guys can imagine, being told to not talk to anyone I know anything about _Night Shift_ was a special, horrible kind of torture for me. I love the show. It’s the best thing that’s ever come out of my brain, and I churn out some great shit sometimes. I have been dying, _dying_ , to tell people about the characters, the plots, the twists and turns, the setting, but I can’t! Because I signed an NDA! Because spoilers! Do you know how fucking hard it is not to say a word about it? How hard it is not to tell people who don’t know who I am about my process behind an episode plot? I need validation from strangers and I need it _now_ , but I can’t, because Netflix would sue my ass into oblivion for breach of contract. And then I will have to sell my body on the streets, and nobody’s gonna want a piece of this hot mess, for reasons I’ve already established. The only thing I have going for me is that I’m funny, and that, folks, is subjective.

Speaking about spoilers—fuck ‘em. No, really. I don’t get why people are so fucking mad whenever you spoil them on something. The other day I was talking to a friend about _Hamilton_ , [audience cheers] which is the weirdest fucking thing to cheer about, a _rap musical_ about the _Founding Fathers_ —but the other day, we were talking about it, and I said, “Hey, didn’t this guy get shot in a duel?”

And my friend just gasps and says, [oddly German voice] “Shut the fuck up about that, I’m working through the soundtrack right now!”

[The audience laughs. Richie grins, practically bouncing on his heels.]

Which—oh, man. Okay. Wait until you get to the part where they all die and the Civil War happens then, big guy. It’s gonna blow your tiny fucking mind.

Me, I _like_ spoilers. Tell me Snape kills Dumbledore, tell me Jon Snow’s actually Rhaegar and Lyanna’s kid, tell me Jack dies because of hypothermia and leaves Rose alone in the world, tell me Anakin Skywalker and Darth Vader are one and the same, that’s all fine by me. ‘Cause chances are: I’ve already looked them up. [He jerks a thumb inward, to himself.] I’m a writer! I used to write for fucking CSI! If you do your foreshadowing well enough, I’m gonna put two and two together, and that’s not because I’m such a brilliant detective—although god I fucking wish I was, they’re super hot and they always get the bad guy—it’s because I _know_ stories. I know how they go. If the writing’s good, it doesn’t matter if the plot twists shock the shit out of you or not. It doesn’t matter if you’re spoiled or not. I mean, Jesus—what’s the point of entertainment if not to _entertain_ , right? If we entertained you, if we didn’t piss you off so much you decided to drop us like hot potatoes, we did our job right.

[Richie rests a hand on the mic stand, a corner of his mouth quirking upward.]

Also, if you validate us, we do our jobs better, so it’s a feedback loop. We’re like ravens. You feed us, and we will give you gifts. Who the fuck cares about the quality of the gifts, we found it, it was shiny, now it’s yours, do with it whatever you want.

...and I hate having to sit through murder mysteries not knowing who the killer is. I did that _once_ , and the hot chick I fell in love with turned out to be a murderous asshole who killed somebody for the insurance money. They didn’t even _earn_ that twist. [He shakes his head.] Shows like that are why I have trust issues. If you’re just gonna pull the rug out from under me and pat yourself on the back for subverting my expectations and also fucking up the narrative, what the fuck are you doing writing for TV? Go write for comics instead! They _love_ shock value there! Gotta keep the audience coming back month after month somehow, and all the _good_ writers either died or avoided the shit out of the comic book industry instead. I shit you not, one day we’ll be reading about Uncle Ben having somehow, miraculously, come back from the dead under the Green Goblin’s control. They’re really running out of ideas over there, the poor bastards.

Hey, actually, did you hear about the latest Spider-Man event? Yeah, apparently they went and killed—oh, shit, wait, never mind! Time’s up, bitches.

[Audience laughs and applauds, as Richie gives a theatrical bow.]

Good night, Casilda!

\--

The first time Eddie meets Carrie, owner of Casilda, it’s right after Richie’s set. Richie’s nowhere to be seen just yet—Eddie had spotted one of the other amateur comedians pulling him aside for something—and Eddie’s still a little thrown, from the set Richie had put up onstage.

It’s not, like, the _funniest_ thing Richie’s ever written. Those, Eddie figures, he saves for the scripts. But it’s _good_ , and it’s definitely leagues above this amateur chattering about his girlfriend troubles—he very much hopes the girl dumped him, because really, who goes and jerks off to their girlfriend’s best friend’s Facebook page?

Still, he gets the feeling there’s something Richie hasn’t quite touched on in his routine. The passing mention of the “hot chick” had felt _off_ , to Eddie, like it wasn’t quite as true as the rest of the set, but well, hell. No one ever said standup comedians had to be completely honest, right? A lot are very honest, maybe even a little _too_ honest, but they’re all holding something back. That’s the trick to surviving Hollywood—you need _something_ no one else can touch, something that will never hit the presses. Some safe place only you know about.

Eddie twists his fork around, gathering up a great deal of spaghetti. Maybe a little too great. He shakes it off his fork again and pulls out a smaller amount of noodles.

“Mr. Kaspbrak,” says a soft voice, and Eddie looks up to see a woman with steadily greying hair pulled back into a low ponytail, crow’s feet wrinkling as she smiles politely down at him. Her burgundy sweater and her skirt coming up just a few inches shy of her knees make him think of—god, of one of those Instagram kids all dressed up in vintage outfits. Except this woman’s not much of a kid. Hell, she’s much older than he is, maybe even midway through her fifties. “I haven’t seen you at our open mic night before.”

“Yeah, I’ve—never really had the opportunity before,” says Eddie, completely lost, because who _is_ this woman? She seems kinda familiar, but he can’t quite place her. “I’m sorry,” he starts, “but, uh, have we met?”

“Definitely not,” says the woman, sitting down across from him. “But Richie’s told me a lot about you. He’s got nothing but good words for you.” She holds her hand out for him to shake. “Carrie White,” she says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Eddie Kaspbrak,” says Eddie, taking her hand and giving it a good, solid shake before letting go. She seems—nice. Steady. Her eyes are soft, but there’s steel in her spine, and she stands up stiff and straight. “It’s, um. It’s nice to meet you, too. Now. Richie’s mentioned you and Sue a couple of times, he likes you guys.”

“Has he,” says Carrie, lightly. “He went to take a call from Veronica Sawyer, but he’ll be coming back soon. I just wanted to talk to you for a bit, given that I haven’t before.” She presses her chin against her palm, resting her elbow on top of the table, and says, “You’ve really made an impression on him.”

“I’m here ‘cause he invited me,” says Eddie. “I’ve never seen you around, actually.”

“I usually come here in the evenings,” says Carrie. “Just to see how things are going. In the daytime I do other things.”

“What kind of things?” Eddie asks.

“I help run a shelter for runaway children,” says Carrie. “I—grew up with a very religious mother. It left some scars. I don’t want more people, more kids, to feel the way I did. Like I had nowhere else to go.” She looks down at the wood of the table, and Eddie can’t help but think of his own mom, of the scars she’d left on him too. _Scars run deeper when it’s your mother who gave them to you, don’t they,_ he thinks.

“Sometimes,” Carrie continues, looking up from the wood, “I go with Sue to watch her work. But most of the time,” she sweeps her hand out to indicate the café, “it’s either Casilda or the shelter. And both keep me busy enough that I don’t tend to come in for a coffee until, oh, maybe nighttime.” Eddie must’ve been making a face, because she smiles and adds, “Coffee doesn’t really work on me as well as it ought to. I found that out some years ago. Instead it just puts me right to sleep.”

“Lucky you,” says Eddie. “I get one cup of coffee in me and I can’t sleep for hours.”

“You and Sue both,” says Carrie. “Have you two ever—”

“Me and Sue Snell?” Eddie shakes his head. “No, never. I’ve watched some of the movies she’s produced, they’re fine work, but I’ve never worked with her. I’d _love_ to,” he adds, hastily, “if you could put me in touch with her that would be great, I’ve been sniffing around for steady jobs. But no, we’ve never worked together before.”

“Give me your number,” Carrie says, fishing some tissue paper out of the napkin holder and pulling a pen out from the breast pocket of her sweater. “I’ll give it to her, and maybe she can find you a role in one of her movies.”

So Eddie tells her his number, and watches her carefully, meticulously write the letters down.

“Are you and Richie like, friends, or something?” he asks, after a moment.

“As friendly as we can be, yes,” says Carrie, tucking the napkin into her pocket. “He’s—He’s really very kind, although his jokes can be a bit much, if you’re not used to it.” She smiles, wanly, and says, “I’m not really used to it, because we don’t tend to talk a lot. He means well, he just wants to make people laugh, but sometimes he can cross a line if he’s not careful enough.” She tucks a strand of mousy brown hair behind her ear, and says, “Like his mom jokes. My own mother was—we disagreed rather. Um. Explosively. After Sue and I left prom together. We left home, so I—” She huffs out a breath, mouth twisting up in a small, mirthless smile. “Richie said this joke about having had, um, relations with my mother, and I—panicked. It was the first mom joke I’d ever heard, I didn’t even realize it was supposed to be one.”

“Oh,” says Eddie.

“My mom was very restrictive,” says Carrie, which sounds very familiar. “We’re okay now, Richie and me, and he hasn’t said anything about my mother since. But sometimes he speaks before he really thinks about it.”

“Yeah, I kinda noticed,” says Eddie, thinking about their first few conversations. “But—well, my mom was—a piece of work, let’s say.” Even saying that much feels like a betrayal of her memory, which is just fucked up, because she _was_. Getting out from under her thumb was the only brave thing he had ever managed to do, before the divorce happened. “She used to tell me, don’t do anything that could leave her alone in the world. She used to tell me that if it wasn’t for her, I’d be all alone, barely able to take care of myself. I got married just to get away from that, and—well, you know how bad that was for both of us.”

“I can guess,” says Carrie, sounding tired and sad and even, surprisingly, a little bit _angry_ on Eddie’s behalf. There are very few people who have ever sounded angry for Eddie before, and every time, it catches him off his guard. Every time, it melts something in his chest that he’s kept all frozen up and locked tight. “But here you are.”

“Here we are,” Eddie says.

Carrie smiles, then. Bares her teeth like a wolf, protective, and for the first time Eddie wonders just how explosive that last argument was, when she walked away from her mother to live a better life. As explosive as Eddie’s own arguments, with his mother and with Myra, perhaps. Or maybe there’s more to the story than what she’s telling him, strictly speaking. Which is all right, everyone has the right to keep private details to themselves, especially on their very first meeting.

He gets this feeling, though, that he’s just made a friend. A very good one.

Then Richie all but bounces up to their table and says, “Eds! And Carrie, hi.” He looks between the two of them, and says, “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Oh, no, we were just finishing up,” says Carrie, softly, standing back up and stepping away to let Richie fall into her seat. “I’ll let you guys get on with it.” She walks away, then, leaving Eddie and Richie tucked away at their own table. Outside, the people of LA are coming and going—mostly towards home, but Eddie spots a few people with phones in their hands, dressed for work, their scarves wound around their necks to keep the autumn chill off of them.

Some guy named Sam Tauber’s up on the stage now, midway through a shitty poem about break-ups. At least Eddie thinks it’s about break-ups. It could very well be about that time a five-year-old Tauber fell through a hole in the floor and spent an hour in there before his mom pulled him out, and it only kind of _sounds_ like the guy’s relating it to a break-up.

“So how was it?” Richie asks.

Eddie smiles. “It was pretty good,” he says, and Richie smiles at him, true and honest and real. Under the soft, yellow lights of the café, with a little more light coming in from just outside, he looks like—like something you’d hang in the MOMA. No, like a shot from some award-winning romantic drama, perfectly lit, beautifully acted, amazingly written. No, like a picture of the LA sunset on Instagram, all the colors blending together into something almost transcendent. No, like the LA sunset itself. No, like—

Eddie swallows the lump in his throat. Richie just looks like Richie. That’s all.

So why is his heart pounding like this?

\--

Eddie flies out to do the _Inside No. 9_ episode on the Saturday after Richie’s stand-up, his days unexpectedly freed up now that _Night Shift_ has finished filming for the most part. On the way to the airport, Paul twists around in his passenger seat and says, “As soon as you come back, I’m heading to my cabin out near Silver Creek, finish Misery off once and for all.”

“Too many distractions here in LA, huh?” says Eddie, knowingly. Paul likes to wax poetic about the process of writing, but he does a lot more _waxing_ than _writing_. And drinking, and smoking, and a fuckton of other things that aren’t click-clacking away on his typewriter. It’ll be good, Eddie figures, for Paul to get Misery Chastain and her baby out of his system.

“Sadly, yes,” says Paul, chuckling. “But I’m working on a new novel on the side, and trust me when I say it just might be the best novel I’ve written since before I started writing Misery.”

“You’re gonna have to convince your publisher about that, man, not me,” says Eddie, eyeing the red light. Honestly he doesn’t need to be driving right now, his flight’s two hours from now, but well, you never know. LA traffic could get worse than this. In fact, it _has_. There could be an accident on the road and they’ll have to take the long way to the airport. They could get lost, although that sounds like a shit excuse even to Eddie, he’s always been good at navigating his way around shit. _Better than a GPS,_ Richie likes to joke.

He misses Richie already. They called each other only last night to talk about nothing in particular, and it had lasted two whole hours. He’ll call again once the plane lands in the UK, and Richie will pick up no matter what the time is. He’s looking forward to it, to hearing Richie’s voice talking about urban legends, about whatever book he’s reading now, about the Overlook Hotel and Christine and room 1408. God, he wants—he wants _something_ , but he’s not sure what. Doesn’t know if he even wants to look at that desire, to pull the shape of it out into the cold, unforgiving light of day. It’s special. He doesn’t want to ruin it.

“I’ll talk them around,” says Paul, waving a carefree hand. “If there’s anything that sells more than sex, it’s the death of a beloved character. The more shocking the better. They’ll get it, and I’ll finally be free of Misery fucking Chastain.”

_I hope you will be,_ Eddie thinks. Maybe that’ll improve Paul’s mood somewhat. He shifts the car out of park, and they roll on forward to the airport.

Paul sees him off, car keys in hand and a promise to keep the damn thing _clean_ and secured. Eddie spends the time before his flight trying very hard not to let his thoughts spiral down that too-familiar path, but it’s only when his phone lights up with Richie’s name attached to the notification that the knot in his gut finally loosens.

_heard from paulie you were on your way out for no 9,_ Richie’s written. _here’s something for the flight!_

Attached to the text is a picture of a black kitten, its eyes wide, as it stares up at something out of frame in shock and wonder. He knows for a fact that Richie doesn’t have a cat, so this must be something he took from the Internet, and sent to Eddie to make him feel less anxious about the flight. It’s almost better than a Xanax.

On the flight, when he sleeps, he dreams of a boy in a hammock, holding a little black kitten. Dreams of the boy’s hand on his ankle, warm like a summer’s day. Dreams of worn comic book pages under his fingers, the boy’s knee pressed against his own, their bodies fitting against each other, and between them a little black cat meowing softly, and, strangely, a tiny little turtle.

When he wakes up, the dream slips from his memory like sand through his fingers. But it leaves behind a sense of peace, a feeling of warmth under his skin, and he carries it with him all the way to the hotel, until the next time Richie calls.

\--

There’s a reporter closing Veronica’s door when Richie drops by. Sure, she’s not carrying her press ID, but her hands are stained with ink and there’s a notebook peeking out of her bag, so Richie’s almost instantly on his guard. So fucking sue him, he doesn’t have a great track record with the press.

Then the woman turns to look at him, and says, “Uh—hi?”

Richie smiles tightly at her. “Hi,” he says, warily. “Are you here for—I can’t think about what you’d be here for, actually.”

“I’m Nancy Wheeler,” says the woman, and Richie relaxes almost immediately. Yeah, he knows Nancy Wheeler. Veronica has not been able to shut up about her article since she got the rights to them, which was, what, a week ago? Malls masquerading as secret Russian bases—yeah, that’d make for a pretty good movie. “I was just giving Miss Sawyer what she needed for her adaptation. I’ll be out of your hair in a moment.”

“Yeah, she’s a thorough person,” says Richie. “See you around, Miss Wheeler.”

Wheeler nods, echoes, “See you around,” and walks down the corridor, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor. Richie leans on the door and gives it a knock— _shave and a haircut, two bits_ , their college days greeting knock.

“Yeah, come on in, Rich!” Veronica calls, and Richie hip-checks the door open.

Veronica’s office isn’t much to write home about, compared to all the other producers’ offices Richie’s ever been in. Most, he’s found, are inordinately proud of their movies despite their quality, hanging them and pictures of the casts and crews on their walls, putting their accolades up for display. Some like to make their offices a show of wealth and power: _look at these movies, look at these awards, look at the furniture that costs more than your college tuition did, motherfucker, and despair._

Richie’s found that Veronica’s only real concession to the bravado is hanging pictures of the casts and crews on her walls. Otherwise, her office is nearly the same as her side of the desk, back when they were sharing a room and sharing a group project—neat and professional enough to pass muster with other people who could make or break her grade, but undercut, to Richie’s eye, with her own personal touches. 

There are John Hughes DVDs crammed behind glass with mockumentaries and award-winning dramas. There are romantic novels sharing space with shit like _The Stand_ and, Richie notes, _his_ beaten-up copy of _A Clash of Kings_ , which means he’s going to be stealing it back posthaste. The office is filled with antique furniture that Richie remembers hauling up in the elevator with her, five years ago after her second film as producer.

Weirdly, there’s not a pop of red anywhere. He’d asked once, and she’d just shrugged and said something about not liking the color. Then they’d both tried to maneuver the sofa into place without breaking something.

Now, Veronica’s closing her laptop and leaning her chin on her palm, making no move to get up to shake his hand or show him to his seat. Richie takes a seat anyway, dropping unceremoniously into a plush chair.

“Anything you feel like telling me about you and Wheeler?” he asks.

“Yeah, thanks, Rich, I’m doing just fine, how about you?” Veronica says, sardonic. “Busy actually writing season two’s outlines instead of just shooting me random ideas at one in the morning? Oh, that’s amazing!”

“Fuck you, you love them, I’ve got the screenshots to prove it,” says Richie, pointing at her. “And you and I both know I can’t write anything new for _Night Shift_ till Netflix actually greenlights the second season.”

“Fuck you too,” says Veronica. Pleasantries exchanged, she leans back in her chair and says, “She told me some details she didn’t include in her article that she wanted to see in the movie, and I told her I’d make sure of it. Incidentally, I need to see if that kid whose video you showed me is free.”

“Baby stuntman?” Richie says, sitting up. “Yeah, I’ll give you her parents’ numbers.” He runs a hand through his hair, and says, “How’s McNamara?”

“Heather’s fine,” says Veronica, her hand drifting upward to touch the side of her neck, light as a feather. Her fingers push her hair back and away from her neck. “She was shaken up, but she’s doing all right now. I got her to go somewhere nice, for the time being—there’s this little place in Humboldt County called Arcata, where people go to just get away from it all for a while.”

“And you, Ronnie?”

“I’m okay,” says Veronica, after a moment’s pause. “Angry as hell towards Heather Duke to the point where I might need you to hold me back if I see her around, and pretty fucking tired _all_ the time, but I’m fine.” She massages her temples and sighs. “I’m also hungry, though,” she admits. “I didn’t eat breakfast.”

“I know a place,” Richie says. “It’s cheap as fuck and there’s a 7/11 nearby, if you want a Slurpee.” Veronica, he knows, absolutely fucking _hates_ Slurpees. He’s got a faint idea why: an ex of hers had loved them, and that had soured her plenty on them.

“I would rather drink liquid shit,” Veronica informs him, right on cue.

“Would you take a Pepsi at In-N-Out instead?” Richie proposes, and Veronica smiles at him, wan and tired, but real.

“Oh, certainly,” she says, and stands up. As soon as they’ve moved out of the office, she seems to unwind, the tension leaving her shoulders as she leans against his side. Like she’s left Veronica Sawyer, producer, behind until later. Her head rests against Richie’s shoulder, and for a moment they’re just two kids in college once more, sharing a dorm room, their futures stretching ahead of them. Richie puts his arm around her, letting her burrow into his side.

They step out into the LA sunlight, and amble down the street together to Richie’s hot-rod red Mustang. The nearest In-N-Out is a fifteen-minute drive from Veronica’s office, although given LA traffic it could easily stretch into thirty if they’re not careful, an hour if they’re really unlucky. Veronica doesn’t say anything until they’re in the car and peeling away from the curb, her head leaning towards the window as the car rolls down the road. Over the radio, some boy band member sings, _Written in these walls are the stories that I can’t explain, I leave my heart open but it stays right here empty for days…_

Richie reaches for the dial, ready to flip the channel to something else.

“Do not change the station,” says Veronica. “What have you got against the top 40, huh?”

“They just suck!” Richie huffs, but he drops his hand. On the way back he’ll change the station to something more 80s, but he’ll let her have this for now.

“Fuck you, I’ve seen your Spotify playlist, you listen to New Kids on the Block more than anyone should,” says Veronica.

“Fuck _you_ , you played MCR over and over,” says Richie. Truthfully he doesn’t know why he listens to New Kids on the Block so much. He doesn’t even like them that much, but something about their songs—sometimes when one of their songs comes on he’ll lie back and close his eyes, and it’s almost like he’s thirteen again, one of the New Kids crooning _you got the right stuff, baby, love the way you turn me on,_ into his ear. Those times, he half-expects someone else to be there too, humming along to the music, the two of them bonded by something stronger than music. Something like love.

It’s always a disappointment to open his eyes and find himself alone again, even though he never really knows _why_.

“My Chemical Romance is a modern classic,” says Veronica, flipping him off now.

“And this is just kitschy-ass Britpop!” says Richie, waving a hand at the radio. _The story of my life, I take her home…_

“What the fuck do you think Queen is?” Veronica says, baffled.

“They’re a completely fucking different category!” Richie all but shouts. “Oh, shit, traffic jam.”

“Fuck,” Veronica grumbles, throwing her head back against the seat with some drama as the Mustang rolls to a stop, behind some asshole’s silver minivan, a sticker on their rear window reading BABY ON BOARD. After a moment’s silence, filled only by the sound of British twentysomethings singing the story of their lives, she looks over at Richie and says, “Are you—Rich, are you lonely?”

_All the time,_ Richie thinks. _God, all the time. I think I’m just born to be lonely, Ronnie, and it scares the shit out of me, because I don’t want to be. Because I remember I was loved, once. I remember someone loved me, and it felt so good, so right. But I don’t remember who they were._ “Why would I be lonely when I have friends like you and Eddie?” he says instead.

“You know what I mean,” says Veronica, nudging his elbow. “I could hook you up. There’s this nice guy who runs this podcast collective in Chicago—”

“Nope,” says Richie.

“ _Richie_ ,” says Veronica.

“I don’t want to _date_ ,” says Richie. “I don’t want a guy who’ll make me breakfast in the morning. I want a guy who’ll fuck my brains out and not tell a soul about it, and I can do that just fine roaming around gay bars.”

“Don’t you want something more real than that?” Veronica asks. “Something beyond a one-night stand?”

“Fuck no,” says Richie. “Guys who want more than that aren’t gonna be satisfied with being my dirty little secret.” His grip tightens on the steering wheel. “So unless your nice guy from Chicago’s any good with his tongue and doesn’t mind just being a booty call, I’m not fucking interested.” He tosses a sideways glance at her, then looks back at the road and inches forward. “Why’re you riding my ass about this, anyway?” he asks. “Aren’t you single, too?”

Veronica’s gaze drops to her hands, and her breath gusts out of her slowly. “Yeah,” she says, “and it’s fucking lonely.”

“Haven’t got anyone lined up?” Richie asks.

“The thing about being a producer, big guy,” says Veronica, looking up at him now, “is that I am _incredibly_ busy. There’s not a lot of time for dating when most of your schedule is spent on production and post-production and all the financial shit that goes with it.” She sighs, running her teeth over her lower lip, then says, “And god, I just—I _miss_ it, having someone, being in love, not feeling so fucking _alone_. We weren’t made to be alone.”

“You weren’t,” says Richie, as Veronica leans her head back against the headrest. “I’m doing perfectly fine.” If he says that enough times, maybe he can convince himself. As it stands, he keeps his eyes on the road and not on Veronica, because she’ll know. She’s known him long enough that she can tell when he’s trying to lie to himself.

Veronica cracks one eye open, focused on his face. “You’re not fooling anyone,” she says, softly. “Especially not yourself. And I think you know that.” Her eye drifts shut again. “Nobody’s made to be alone, Rich,” she says.

“But they can learn to be,” says Richie. “And I’m fucking great at it.”

“Shitty thing to learn,” says Veronica.

“Ronnie,” says Richie.

“I’m just saying.”

“I don’t fucking want you to stick your fingers in my fucking love life ‘cause you think I’m sad when I’m _alone_ , Ronnie,” Richie snaps. “That’s you. Don’t project your issues on me.”

“Oh, _I_ have issues?” Veronica snaps back, eyes opening now as she twists in her seat to glare at him. “Hey, Mister Closet Case Tozier, maybe I just want one of us to be fucking happy, how about that?”

“So work on your own shit!” Richie says, throwing his hands up. “I’ll work on my shit if it needs working on, which it _doesn’t_ —”

“Says the guy who’s almost forty and who’s _still_ in the fucking closet even from his parents—”

“Oh, _fuck you_ , Veronica Sawyer, and incidentally I fucked your dad last night so how’s _that_ for happiness—”

“You _dickhead_ —”

A horn blares behind them. Richie starts, then turns to see the long line of cars backed up behind them. Then he looks ahead of him and says, “Is that a green light?”

“Fucking move!” Veronica yells, and Richie floors it so hard he actually feels gravity press him down into his seat as the car bolts out of rest.

\--

**Richie**

_**Today** 9:28 PM_

hey you awake?

yeah it’s like 2 pm here.  
what’s up?

can’t sleep

so here I am.

am I interrupting anything?

ronnie is shooting me dirty looks for texting you while we’re eating lunch.  
we yelled at each other a little in the car.  
she’s still a little pissed at me.

what the fuck were you two yelling at each other for?

if i’m lonely or not  
which i’m not.  
i’ve got you and her and half the time i’m too busy to be lonely.

what about the other half?

that’s what hooking up is for, my young padawan.  
anyway hey when are you coming back?

in a couple of weeks.

and then Paul’s going off to Colorado so he can finish his books and send them for editing

so I’m pretty much alone in the house until he gets back

which is gonna take a while.

he’s actually working on them now???  
miracles do happen.

yeah I’m guessing he’ll be back by like February.

but until then the place is all mine and I’m gonna spend the time till he gets back just

cleaning

the hell

out of it

because it’s fucking offensive how big a mess he just lets build up.

please never visit my apartment then.

Jesus fucking Christ is it just a writer thing to be messy as fuck??

only when we’re working on something!  
unfortunately i am always working on something.  
also ronnie is sideeyeing me now.  
she is maybe still mad.

apologize to her for being an asshole, man.

did it.  
she made me pay for lunch before she’d accept it.  
do you hear that, eds? that’s the sound of my empty wallet rumbling.

you’re the guy here, you SHOULD pay for her lunch.

fuck gender roles, let women pay for their lunch!!  
what the fuck did they fight for if not the right to pay for lunch!!

she outranks you dude.

that means she makes more money than me!!

yeah but also your job is in her hands.

ohhh point to spagheds.

stop calling me spaghetti names Jesus Christ.

why are you like this?

my parents didn’t attend my birth and i’ve been crying out for their attention ever since.  
hey when you come back, want me to drop by and help you do clean-up?  
i have first-hand experience with how much of a mess we writers can make.

oh thank fucking god

now I don’t have to look for a cleaning crew that’s up to standard.

your standards are too stupid high, man.  
that’s your problem right there.

fuck you my standards are middling at BEST.

you bring hand sanitizer with you everywhere!  
you said that you clean your basement every three days!  
most people clean their basements like maybe once a month at the most frequent if they even HAVE a basement to clean.

you did not see the state of this basement when I moved in

it still haunts my nightmares.

i know you mean that as a joke but like?  
it’s you, so if it really does haunt your worst nightmares i would not be all that surprised.  
also ronnie is making me drive so call me when it’s not too late for you to call.  
i have ideas.  
don’t leak them to the other actors!!

ohhhh SHIT let me just delete this group chat I have where I’ve leaked every detail you’ve told me so far.

le GASP  
betrayed!!

we like knowing if we’re gonna have jobs!

in all seriousness though, your secrets are safe with me.

aw, thanks, eds.

barely any better than Spagheds.

but you like it!!

\--

It doesn’t take long to film the episode; a week, tops, with a few extra days to reshoot a few scenes and add a post-credits twist. Once they’ve wrapped and Eddie’s washed the fake blood off his hands, the cast and crew go out for drinks. Eddie has to go early, though, because his flight is in the morning and he’s still got to pack his things, and he gets well-intentioned claps on the back and a toast to his good health before he goes back to his hotel.

He kicks his shoes off, then more or less just collapses into his bed, still dressed.

When he dreams, he dreams of his old house. Not the one he and Myra used to live in when they were married, not even the one he and his mother lived in when they were living in New York, and certainly not the shitty little apartment he used to share with four other people when he was first starting out in LA. No, this house is the one he barely remembers: a two-story red brick house, with the least inviting porch in the history of porches, overgrown with green, and a huge tree with branches that reach to the second story, great for climbing. Other than that, it’s almost picture-perfect.

He blinks, and the picture yellows, rots with age. Fear lodges in his throat as the wood of the porch decays in front of his eyes, planks falling through, eaten by termites. Grime and dirt crawl over the red brick, and vines creep up the sides of the house.

Is it just him, or is the house _looking_ at him? He looks up at the two windows, and his heart leaps into his throat and tries to scrabble its way out of his mouth.

The lights are on. His mother is home and he doesn’t want to be at home with her all of a sudden. He can’t, he _can’t_ , she’ll suffocate him, she’ll eat him up because she loves him so much she can’t bear to lose him, _come home come home Eddie-bear come home COME HOME—_

“No,” he whimpers, a child’s voice tearing out of him, because he is a child, a boy of thirteen trying to run, always trying to run, because he knows even then it’s the best thing he can do for himself—run away, run fast and far in the opposite direction from where his mother waits. Far from this place, where something awful and terrible waits for him. Not his mother, no. “No, I don’t want to, _please_ —”

His feet don’t listen. His eyes rove upwards towards the windows again, and an iron grip tightens around his lungs when he sees a red balloon float, slowly, out of one of them. Out of the window closest to a tree branch— _his_ window.

A step, then another, then another. His mother’s voice beckons from inside the house, so syrupy-sweet he could gag: _Come home, Eddie-bear, come home and take your medicine._

“No no no _no_ —”

The door yawns open. Eddie stops in front of it, trying to dig his heels in, groping around his body for his inhaler. His lungs have closed up on him, and every breath is a fight, wheezing in and out of the pinhole of his throat. _No please no let me be,_ he wants to beg, but he can barely even breathe now, let alone speak.

A pair of hands reach from the darkness for him. Eddie stumbles back with a scream.

Those are not his mother’s hands. Or rather—those _used_ to be his mother’s hands, but in reality Sonia Kaspbrak had been much larger than life, her hands calloused, her nail polish always chipping. These hands are skeleton-thin and scarred, skin stretched over bones and leaking blood and pus and maggots, her nails like claws trying to scratch him up and infect him, too. Bandages hang off her arms, and underneath them he can see open sores, burst blisters, signs of infectious disease. _Tell me you love me, Eddie,_ she demands, and she sounds like his mother and not his mother at the same time, _I’ll eat you up, I love you, now say it back, say it back—_

The words stick in his throat as Eddie flings himself back, landing on his ass and scrabbling away. “Get away from me _stay the fuck away_ ,” he shrieks, fumbling for his inhaler. His hand closes over the familiar hunk of plastic, and he yanks it out of his fanny pack and points, desperately, at the hands reaching for him, trying to pull him into the dark.

He pushes down on the trigger, and a spray of fine mist bursts from the mouth of his inhaler. The thing with his mother’s voice shrieks and falls backwards, howling, and Eddie picks himself up and bolts down the steps, as his mother’s voice hammers after him: _What have you done?! Why would you do that to me, the only one who has ever loved you?! I love you, Eddie-bear, I’m the only one who knows you and still loves you!_

He runs away from her, legs pumping against the ground. Runs from that house that only ever suffocated him, desperate to run somewhere, anywhere else, far from there. Far from this town. Somewhere safe.

His legs take him there: another two-story home, but this time it seems almost to sparkle, light shining from the windows, blue paint fresh and new on the walls, tree green and alive. Eddie slows to a halt just outside, breathing hard, sweating like a goddamn Olympic runner. He could qualify for the Olympics, he thinks, suddenly, because his breath hadn’t come too short for him to run at all. He looks up at the house and thinks he sees people moving about, inside—laughter, and music, and noise. Something inside his chest loosens, because he knows where he is. This is his best friend’s house. This is—

This is—

Alarm flares in the back of his mind, but only for a moment, the dream logic sweeping it away. He all but skips down the path, and rings the doorbell.

Something creaks, under his feet. Eddie steps back, concerned. “The _hell_ ,” he murmurs, watching in horror as the floorboards rot under him. When he looks up, the paint is drying and flaking off and fading to a dull brownish color. The window shutters swing slowly open and their hinges rust away in front of his terrified eyes. Glass cracks and shatters, shards falling out onto the porch. The soft voices full of love fade away, but the laughter remains, turns mocking as Eddie backs up.

_Look at the little wheezy boy, he thinks he can run,_ a new voice hisses, from somewhere behind him. Eddie whips around, only to find nothing but a lone red balloon floating out in the sidewalk. It isn’t floating away into the sky, though, not the way balloons should. It’s just staying there, hovering above the pavement. _Run away, Eddie, run as fast as you can—but you’re always gonna run back home, aren’t ya? Because you’re always gonna be too scared to stand in the real world. Too scared of yourself._

The thing laughs. The horrible cackle echoes all around him, like he’s in a stadium and people are screaming all around him. It croons: _scared little wheezy boy, come home, come home._

The balloon moves. Eddie wants to scream, wants to run, but his feet are rooted fast to the ground. He can’t move. He can’t even scream, his throat has closed up so tightly out of fear that he can barely breathe.

The door swings open.

A pair of white gloves reach for him. The sunlight gleams on sharp teeth, like needles, in a mouth opening to eat him.

And Eddie—

—wakes up, screaming.

He breathes hard, sweating through his clothes, head still spinning from the nightmare. Jesus Christ, what did he drink that his head came up with that shit? Can’t have been the role, he’s not someone who gets so into his character that he _dreams_ in character, which is ridiculous and, in Eddie’s opinion, a great big neon sign that reads _Get Some Goddamn Therapy Asshole_. 

Can’t be the book he’s been reading off and on while filming this episode, because it’s a Michael Jackson autobiography. Can’t be Richie’s stories bouncing around in his head—yeah, Eddie’s had some inventive dreams featuring toilet ghosts and sentient cars, but they’re the regular kinds of weird dreams where he also has spaghetti arms and can inexplicably fly. Whatever this nightmare was—

He shivers. He can barely remember the details now, they’ve slipped from his mind so fast, but he remembers the bone-deep terror he’d felt in the dream. Hell, he still feels scared as shit.

He fumbles for his phone. It’s 3 in the morning. He’s only gotten, what, four, five hours of sleep? Whatever. He can’t go back to sleep, not after that terrible nightmare, so instead he slides his phone open and stares at his contact list.

Richie’s probably working on something right now. What the fuck is Eddie doing, calling him up like this? Like Richie should drop everything to help him through his post-nightmare spiral. Like Richie’s life revolves around him, or something. He can’t expect Richie to drop everything when Eddie asks for his help, this is Hollywood, he’s probably busy. Eddie’s already interrupted his sleep once before.

_You can call anytime,_ Richie had said, the last time a dream had scared Eddie so badly that he’d called Richie, the first name he could think of. The only name he could think of.

_Anytime._

Before he can decide, his phone lights up, Richie’s name written in white letters across his screen. He’s too relieved to decline, sliding to answer and pressing his phone to his ear to say, “Hey, Rich.”

“Oh, thank fucking god,” Richie sighs, sounding relieved over the phone. Eddie sits up. “I had a fucked-up dream, man. I know it’s like three in the fucking morning over there, and I’m sorry, but you were the first person I could think of to call about this.”

“Oh,” says Eddie, breathing out, the iron band around his lungs loosening. “Shit, me too. I was debating over whether to call you about it.”

“We’re a fucked-up pair, Eds,” says Richie, giving a mirthless laugh. Eddie wants, suddenly and very badly, to somehow be able to reach across the Atlantic Ocean to give him a hug. “I don’t remember it, you know? It scared the shit out of me but I can’t remember it now.”

“Me neither,” Eddie admits, leaning against the headboard and pulling his knees up to his chest. “All I remember is how fucking terrified I was, but _why_ is just—gone.”

“Think it’s repressed memories?” Richie asks.

“What?”

“I can’t remember shit-all from when I was a kid up until when I was around eighteen or so,” says Richie. “I’ve got impressions and snippets of memories and my parents have pictures, but that’s about it. Something really fucked-up must’ve happened to me that I don’t remember at least ten fucking years.” Another mirthless, tinny laugh rattles in Eddie’s ear, and Richie says, “No one else knows that. Not even Ronnie.”

Eddie gnaws on his lower lip, and says, “I don’t remember much of my childhood either. I think up until I was like, sixteen?” He breathes out slowly. “Some shit’s clearer—my mom and my aunts, for example. But the rest of it, I can’t really remember. I used to think maybe it was some kind of—of brain problem, or something.”

“I thought people were making it up when they talked about remembering their childhoods in complete detail,” says Richie. “I don’t. My parents have pictures but whenever I look at ‘em I don’t feel anything.”

“When my mom died I only got her photo album,” Eddie says, “and when I looked at the pictures she kept I didn’t feel anything at all, either. So. You and me both.”

“What are the chances we’d run into each other, huh?” Richie says. “The only two motherfuckers in Tinseltown who don’t have childhood memories to fall back on.”

“Molly doesn’t,” says Eddie.

“Two out of three ain’t too bad,” Richie concedes. “So—you think it’s repressed memories causing our nightmares, or no?”

“I don’t know if it’s anything,” says Eddie, hugging his knees with one arm. “Maybe it’s something we watched? Or ate? Or wrote or acted in?”

“I didn’t have nightmares writing the _Night Shift_ scripts and if burgers were responsible for my nightmares, I’d be fucking dead of terror by now,” says Richie. “I think—god, I don’t fucking know. I feel like I’ve almost got it, got the reason why, but every time I try to grab hold of it, the damn thing just slips out of my fingers and leaves a stain behind.”

And that, Eddie thinks, is why Richie’s the writer between the two of them. “Exactly,” he says, relieved to have at least the words to describe the feeling of the dream keeping out of his reach, no matter how hard he tries to grab hold of it. “I tried to get them back, you know? I told Myra, and she got me a session with a hypnotist.”

“More like she bought the hypnotist a new house,” says Richie, dryly.

“Yeah, I thought so too,” says Eddie, remembering the desperate attempts the man’s office made to stay on-trend: the sleek lines, the impersonal white, the furniture Eddie could only describe as, at best, _conceptual_. “I, uh. Apparently I punched him in the face during the session, and the hypnosis didn’t bring anything back.”

“Better than me,” says Richie. “I went to see someone about it and kicked him in the groin.” There’s another laugh over the phone, but now it sounds more real than it did before. “Our subconsciouses must be keeping some really fucked-up shit in ‘em.”

“Is that even a word,” says Eddie. “God, what do you think it is?”

“If Shakespeare can make up words, I can too,” says Richie. “The world’s worst birthday party, I guess? It’d explain the coulrophobia.”

“Think we had to deal with killer clowns at a birthday party?” Eddie asks. ( _Come home come home—_ )

“Probably,” says Richie. “Although if you ask me I think I just saw a shitty horror movie with a clown in it. I watched a lot of those when I was a kid.”

“My mom would never have let me watch a horror movie,” says Eddie.

“Your mom, though her tits were pillowy and soft, sounds like a grade-A asshole,” says Richie.

“Stop fucking talking about my dead mom’s tits,” huffs Eddie. “And—she was, but she was my mom. She had some fucked-up ideas about protecting me.”

“Just because you want to protect someone doesn’t give them a fucking right to fuck with you,” says Richie. “If you want your kid to stay safe riding a bike you make them put a fucking helmet and shin pads on. You don’t forbid them from even looking at the goddamn bike.”

“I know that now,” says Eddie. “I am— _still_ so pissed at her. The last time I saw her before she died was before Myra and I got married, and that was way back in 2005. But god, Rich, she was my _mother_ , and I loved her.” He sighs, and says, “Is it possible to love someone anyway despite what they did to you?”

Richie’s quiet for so long that Eddie’s half-afraid he’s hung up or something. Then he says, “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“I loved her,” says Eddie, quietly. “But there were other people I loved too, when I was a kid. I remember that much. I wish I could remember who they were.”

“Even if it means knowing what fucked you up so much your brain suppressed all memory of it?” Richie asks.

“Even then.” It’s true, Eddie realizes after the words leave his mouth. Even if it means remembering the source of his terrifying nightmares, he’d rather get those people he loved so dearly and so much back. He’d rather have the closest thing he ever had to a real _home_ back. “You?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” says Richie. “If I kicked some poor fucker in the crotch because my subconscious really didn’t want to let go of that memory, is it really worth it?” There’s a sigh on the other end of the line. “Maybe it’s best to just let it lie.”

“What, even if you might get something good back?” Eddie asks.

“Would that be worth it?” Richie says. “Hell, Eddie. I’m not you. I’m not brave.”

“Who told you I was brave,” says Eddie, “because they were lying their asses off.”

“No one told me,” says Richie. “You literally just told me you’re willing to put your sanity on the line so you can remember a bunch of people you went to elementary school with. That’s pretty brave.” He pauses. “Also kinda reckless. But brave.”

“Eh, you’d be there,” says Eddie, “to make sure I don’t go batshit.”

“If you go nuts I’ll be right there with you, also going batshit,” says Richie. “People with repressed childhood memories gotta stick together, after all. We’re sane together or we’re crazy together.”

It’s funny. Eddie’s only known Richie for a matter of months, but he knows deep in his heart of hearts that Richie means it, means every word. Has he ever known a friendship like this? He’s sure he’s never known a romantic relationship like this, love given to him for no real reason other than he’s _loved_ , with no demands and no strings attached. He thinks maybe he might—

He might—

“Hey, Eds?” Richie asks, his voice cutting through the whirlwind in Eddie’s head, settling him, grounding him as well as a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not falling asleep on me now, huh?”

“No, no,” says Eddie, “I don’t think I could sleep after that shit anyway.” And how can he sleep, trying to figure out this—this strange sensation in his chest? The way his heart speeds up when he talks to Richie, the way he can’t seem to get him out of his head, the way he _misses_ him when he’s not there. It’s as if Richie has wormed his way underneath Eddie’s skin and into his heart. No—it’s as if there was a space for Richie in his heart already. “Sane together or crazy together, huh? As long as we’re together?”

“Yeah,” says Richie. “You—don’t mind, right? We haven’t known each other very long, I know that, but fuck, man. It feels like I’ve known you for years.”

“I don’t mind,” says Eddie, smiling down at his kneecaps. “Long as we’re together. Yeah. Sounds good to me.” They should be professional, he knows, but they’re so far out of being _professional_ that they’re navigating uncharted territory. And the hell of it is, Eddie can’t even bring himself to mind, all that much. He likes the sound of it— _together_. “Hey,” he says, switching gears now, “I’ve been reading an autobiography from Michael Jackson.”

“ _Shamone,_ ” Richie says, doing a pretty good impression of the late pop star. “You a celebrity biography man then, Eds?”

“I’m a ‘whatever I can pick up at the airport’ man,” Eddie says. “This was just cheap and easy to carry.”

“You know,” says Richie, after a moment, “I dressed up in his Thriller costume for a Halloween party, back in college.”

“Yeah? How’d that party work out for you?”

“ _Bad,_ ” says Richie, laughing. “So back in my third year of college, I was in a college band that covered all the eighties hits. We called ourselves Hair of the Dog and wore shitty mullets…”

\--

Richie is waiting for him, when Eddie flies back to LA, three hours after the nightmare. At least by Eddie’s own internal clock, anyway, because it’s 10:28 PM the day before in LA by the time his plane touches down. His sleep schedule is going to be fucked to hell for a couple of days, he can tell already.

But Richie is there when he emerges out into the arrivals area, carrying a sign that reads KASPBRAK, EDUARDO, and fond exasperation blooms like a rose somewhere below Eddie’s sternum at the sight of the shitty brown cardboard sign, and of the man holding it, wearing a brightly-patterned pink Hawaiian shirt (with shrimps on it! Shrimps!) that marks him out from the crowd almost immediately. Hell, Eddie hadn’t even known until now that Richie _had_ any Hawaiian shirts—mostly Richie’s just worn hoodies in varying shades of grey, blue, and on one memorable occasion, dark red.

( _you know what i’m gonna wear to prom eds i’m gonna wear a fucking beach come on it’ll be funny it fits with the theme hey how funny would it be if we matched_ )

He blinks, shakes his head. The memory is gone as fast as it came, but a phantom warmth spreads across his shoulders, like he’s spent the past few hours out in the sun instead of in a plane, trying not to implode out of panic.

“Eddie!” Richie calls. “Hey, Eddie! Over here!”

“Yeah, yeah, I can see you, Rich!” Eddie shouts back from across the airport. He hoists his toiletry bag up onto his shoulder and hauls his two suitcases across the area, walking briskly until he and Richie are standing in front of each other for the first time in a week. “Hey,” he says, plucking at one of the buttons on Richie’s shirt. “What the hell’s this?”

“A Hawaiian shirt, duh,” says Richie, putting the sign under his armpit now that he’s got no need for it.

“I’ve never seen you in one,” says Eddie.

Richie shrugs. “It turns out most showrunners are not very excited to meet a guy who dresses like Gonzo,” he says. “Paul’s waiting back at the house, by the way, wants to talk to you before he’s got to go.”

“I figured,” says Eddie. “Help me out here?”

So they drag Eddie’s suitcases out into the parking lot, and stuff them into the trunk of Richie’s incredibly expensive Mustang. Eddie valiantly attempts to hold back a tear when he sees the sizable dent in the poor thing’s rear—what has Richie been doing that he dented his expensive-ass car?

“Oh, that,” says Richie, giving a dismissive wave of his hand when Eddie asks him. “I backed my car up into a wall.”

“You _what?_ ”

“It was months ago,” says Richie.

“You should’ve gotten this fixed months ago then!” Eddie says, wringing his hands.

“Eh,” says Richie. “Car still works.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, they let you _drive_ with that attitude?”

“Your mom lets me eat her out in the backseat with that attitude,” says Richie, airily, as he slams the lid of the trunk down, and Eddie slugs his shoulder again for that. Richie laughs, and gets into the driver’s seat as Eddie clambers into the passenger seat. “So how was the show?” he asks, as they peel out of the parking space and drive out of the lot. The radio’s on, but there’s no music playing at the moment, just the host taking calls.

“Pretty good,” says Eddie. “Don’t tell anyone this, but I’m a stay-at-home dad who goes crazy over a single shoe.”

Richie cuts a glance over at him, no more than two seconds before his eyes flick back towards the road. “That’s—what, a shoe?” he asks.

“Yep, a shoe,” says Eddie. “All very tragic.”

“Is he projecting onto the shoe or something?”

“Oh, _yeah,_ ” says Eddie, a little impressed by how fast Richie’s figured that part out. “But you gotta see it, man, I’m not telling you anything else.”

“You can’t keep me hanging in suspense like this,” says Richie, turning around a corner and slowing as they approach a sizable traffic jam. “Jesus fucking Christ. It’s almost _eleven_ , is there an awards show and nobody bothered to tell me?”

“If there is, it’s probably the one Rotten Tomatoes holds,” says Eddie. “Jesus fucking Christ, I forgot how much I fucking _hate_ LA traffic.”

“God, me too,” says Richie. “At least it’s not New York.”

“Fuck you,” says Eddie, “at least in New York you can _walk_. New Yorkers are walkers and subway takers.”

“Doesn’t stop the traffic jams from piling up, though, does it?” Richie snipes, and Eddie rolls his eyes towards the roof. “Anyway, how long have you been living in LA again?”

“I lived in New York first,” says Eddie. “You never really stop loving your first city.” He jabs a finger into Richie’s shoulder, and says, “Anyway, you’re the one who set his show in _New York City_ , dumbass.”

“Because everyone sets their shit in New York City!” says Richie, throwing up a hand. Eddie leans back to avoid having it smack into his face, just in time. “Sorry. But New York’s where the money is, you gotta admit that much. Kimmy Schmidt didn’t move to Los Angeles, she moved to _New York_.”

“Who the fuck is Kimmy Schmidt?” Eddie asks.

“ _Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt_ —Jesus fucking Christ, Netflix is failing you,” says Richie, and tells him about the premise: a girl, fresh off being rescued from her kidnapper, heads to New York to start a new life. Eddie doubts it’s that funny, but Richie swears up and down that it is, so Eddie promises to at least stick it on a list and then watch the first episode when he has time.

They fall into silence, after that, and Richie turns up the volume on the radio. He bobs his head and hums along when an old song comes on, one Eddie quickly recognizes: _Gloria, you’re always on the run now, running after somebody, you gotta get him somehow…_

Richie’s hand rests on the center console. After a moment, Eddie looks away, as casual as possible, and rests his own hand there as well, right next to Richie. The side of his pinkie finger presses against Richie’s, and something in Eddie’s core grows warm and wriggly. So. So maybe. _Maybe_ , but he’ll have to check. He supposes.

In the back of his mind, he can hear his mother, he can hear Myra, their voices twining together in an awful Greek chorus of sickeningly sweet concern: _Are you sure? Are you very sure? You know you’re never sure, you know how delicate your mental health can be. Are you sure about this, Eddie-bear? Why don’t you come back home, come back to me, the only one who could ever love you at all? Come home, Eddie, come home._

But the warmth of Richie’s pinkie pressed against his says otherwise. The small smile on Richie’s face when he glances over at Eddie says otherwise. Maybe— _Maybe._ He isn’t sure, just yet, if he can really call this wriggly feeling—god, he may as well think it in the privacy of his own head, _romantic_. After all, what the fuck does he know about romance? Or even friendship?

But he’s got time to figure it out. And he ought to, before he can do anything with Richie that means moving beyond this thing between them.

God, he doesn’t even know if Richie even _likes_ men. And he can’t risk this friendship, not right now, not until he’s on more solid ground about his own preferences. _Although it would explain so fucking much,_ he thinks. Like the one time he’d blown a guy in college, which had been exponentially better than all the other times he’s had sex, even _married_ sex. Like the nausea and dread that churned up the contents of his stomach before he got married to Myra, which he’d just chalked up to wedding night jitters. Come to think of it, he’d felt that same nausea just proposing to her.

He didn’t look at women when he was married. It had been pretty easy not to, he’d never had much interest. It had been much, much harder to tear his eyes away from _men_ —in wet T-shirts, with their collars popped, with their glasses slipping down their noses, tall men with wicked smiles that made him flush and look away, trying to concentrate on the script in front of him.

Over the radio, Laura Branigan sings, _Are the voices in your head calling, Gloria?_

The traffic jam eases up, after a while, at 11:30 PM, so it’s not as bad as it could’ve been. “An early Christmas miracle,” Richie says, deadpan, as he drives. Eddie’s turned off the GPS, because all it does is get him and Richie nothing but traffic, and is guiding Richie through the streets of LA. Which is hilarious, because he’s pretty sure Richie’s been here a year or two longer than he is. Just goes to show how dependent you can get on technology, really, even something as shitty as a GPS.

“Turn right that way,” says Eddie, and Richie obediently turns the car right as soon as they hit the intersection. “Hey, uh, Paul’s a decent guy, but sometimes he can overdo it a little on the celebrations, and he’s been in a pretty celebratory mood since starting _Misery’s Child_ —”

“Oh, yeah, no, don’t worry,” says Richie. “I mean, unless we’re walking into an orgy, I can probably handle whatever shit your roommate throws at me.”

Eddie snorts out a laugh. “You haven’t heard about when we wrapped on the miniseries all those years ago, then,” he says. “I had to go wake him up for the last day of shooting, and right before I knocked on his door he opened it up and two women walked out looking—”

“Well-fucked?” Richie says, and Eddie snorts out a laugh. “I knew it. Paul Sheldon fucks.”

“He’s got a daughter in college, of course he fucks,” says Eddie. “But yeah. Yeah, it probably won’t be at that level, he’s almost fucking fifty now and he bitches about his joints a lot. But I figure at least he’ll be well into a bottle of wine by now.”

“Taking old Hemingway’s advice, I’m guessing,” says Richie.

“I didn’t know you knew any Hemingway,” says Eddie, tapping a fingernail against the window switch.

“I had to read two of his books for class once,” says Richie. “They were a little too hard-boiled for me. But yeah, you know that nugget of wisdom floating around the Internet, _write drunk, edit sober_?”

“Oh, yeah, I saw that,” says Eddie, snapping his fingers. “Hemingway said that? Turn left at the next fork and then straight on ahead till you hit Gonzaga.”

“Eh, probably not,” says Richie, “but fuck him, he’s too _dead_ to refute it.” He narrows his eyes, squinting up at the street signs passing them by. “Left and then straight on till Gonzaga, got it. Anyway, I’ve written drunk before, man. I can safely say that advice is total bullshit for anyone but high-functioning alcoholics, and sure as fuck I was just the regular flavor of alcoholic. All that came out was just shit I couldn’t use.” He laughs. “I think at one point I had McGonagall enter the narrative in fucking _CSI_ , I was that fucked up.”

“It would be funny, though,” says Eddie, contemplatively. “Having a witch suddenly show up outta nowhere in Las Vegas. Grissom would’ve had a fucking conniption, I bet.”

“He would’ve _imploded_ ,” Richie says.

“You know who the most ridiculous character to show up in _CSI_ Las Vegas would be?” Eddie asks. “Fucking— _Darth Vader_. I mean, think about it, how are you gonna explain a corpse with a crushed windpipe but no visible sign of bruises? Or a corpse with a hand that’s been chopped off and cauterized in the same instant? And he’s Darth _fucking_ Vader, he can pull all that shit from a distance.”

“No, no, you’re thinking too small,” says Richie.

“I just said _Darth Vader_ ,” Eddie says, letting himself get wound up, riled up, an acerbic bite to his voice, “you asshole, he’s a pop culture icon, how is that _too fucking small_?”

Sure enough, Richie grins. Like he’s perfectly content right here, arguing about CSI and the weirdest characters to drop into such a mundane setting as modern-day Las Vegas. “Because you’re just thinking about who’d be the _murderer_ ,” he says. “We were thinking about the _crime_ —who the victim was, how they died and sometimes how it _looked_ like they died, who were the obvious suspects, who were the not-so-obvious suspects, and how we could confuse the shit out of the viewers for half an hour.” His fingers drum against the wheel as he slows the car down, to turn left as Eddie’s told him to. “So if you wanna keep the viewers in suspense for half an hour, I’d kill Darth Vader via kitchen knife with no fingerprints and have the suspects be Leia, Han and Luke. They’ve all got a reason to want the guy fuckin’ _dead_.”

“It’d be Leia or Luke,” says Eddie, with certainty. “He loves his family too much, he’d let them get close and then, _bam_.” He mimes stabbing someone through the chest.

“Ah, but you’re forgetting,” says Richie, with a corner of his mouth quirked upward in a lopsided smile, “there’s _Padmé_.”

“Padmé’s _dead_ ,” says Eddie.

“Is she _really?_ ”

“We saw her body! She died in childbirth!”

“Correction, officially she died of a broken heart, and we both know _that’s_ bullshit. The woman ran a fucking planet! She’s tougher than that!”

“She just lost the love of her life and her life’s work in two days! That’d fuck with _anyone_.” Is he really arguing _Star Wars_ with Richie? How the hell did they even get there? Whatever. Eddie sits up straighter and snaps, “Anyway, where would she have been through the whole original trilogy if she wasn’t dead, huh?”

“Hiding out in Las Vegas, biding her time,” says Richie. “Vader would let her get close enough to stab him. He’d even help her, I bet, he fucking hates himself.”

“Okay, but then _why_ kill him?”

“In-universe, to save the galaxy or some shit.” Richie waves a hand. “Out of universe, you wanna catch the audience’s attention and you wanna _keep_ it. Love gone wrong and bloody is the easiest way to do it.”

Love gone wrong and bloody, huh. Eddie leans back against his seat once more. His mother had loved him, that much he can’t dispute, but her love had suffocated him until he could barely breathe. Myra had loved him, but only an idea that he couldn’t live up to, even when she tried to make him fit the mold of it. Sometimes Eddie wonders if he knows any other kind of love, now. Maybe he’s destined to love and be loved that way—wrong and bloody.

But god, that’s a terrible fate. That’s such a shitty thing to settle for.

“I dunno,” he says, “it seems kinda clichéd. Turn right.”

“I’m a writer,” says Richie. “I _breathe_ clichés.” He turns the wheel and eases them right. “Can you tell me more about the episode you were on?” he asks. “I watched some of the show, it seemed pretty interesting and I kinda wanna see if we can’t make an American adaptation. If it worked for The Office, it could work here.”

“It’s love gone wrong and bloody,” says Eddie, thinking back to David’s single shoe, the curiosity transforming into full-blown obsession and then murder, all of it fueled by the enormity of his grief. The man’s son had died, and the twins had been parted, torn apart—no wonder the poor fucker had fixated on the shoe. It had never been about the shoe, it had been about the love. What are you supposed to do with the love, when the person’s gone? Where are you supposed to put it down?

“Love,” says Richie, “over a shoe.”

“It’s not about the shoe, really,” says Eddie. “It’s about—losing someone, and not being able to cope.” To the point of committing murder. The script had never said exactly what David had done, at the end, if he had only killed his wife’s old college friend for the shoe or done something else entirely, but Eddie’s known people like him. Eddie had been raised by a person who thought the same way David did: obsessive about love, about control. Eddie’s pretty sure he killed the surviving twin. “It’s about what happens when the hurt gets so bad that you don’t know where to put it,” he says. “So you lock it up tight inside your heart and it just—it festers in there. Just fucking rots you from the inside out, and it spreads to other people.” Like his mother. Like Myra.

“You should write,” says Richie, after a moment.

“What?”

“You should _write_ ,” says Richie. “Doesn’t have to be a script, doesn’t have to be a story. But—you sounded like a writer just then.”

“I’m an _actor_ ,” says Eddie. “The only writing I’ve done is for e-mails and shit.” He can’t imagine putting pen to paper and—and spilling out stories the way Richie can.

“So?” Richie says. “Carrie Fisher’s a writer and she’s Princess Leia. Like half the comedians I’ve known wrote books and around seventy-five percent write their own material.”

“Yeah, but they’re _good_ writers!”

“You live with Paul fuckin’ Sheldon,” says Richie. “He who wore out the love triangle three books ago and thinks shit like _stiffening rod of love_ is a great way to describe a guy’s erection.” He coughs, then says, in a British accent, “Darling, don’t panic, but my _rod of love_ is having a bit of a problem _stiffening_ —”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” says Eddie, trying to hold in the giggles beginning to rise in his chest. Then he thinks, fuck it, and says, “God—darling, my—my cave of passion is f-f-fuh- _flooding_ —” He breaks, then, bending over with his hand pressing against the glove compartment, laughing helplessly.

“With _great amounts of passion_ ,” Richie says, his voice now high-pitched and as feminine as a man just a year shy of turning forty can manage.

“The _worst_ ,” Eddie gasps out, trying to get his breath back. God, his sides _hurt_. When was the last time he laughed like this in someone’s company? It takes him two minutes or so before he can catch enough breath to say, “I had—I changed so many lines when I was playing Ian, I couldn’t take half what I said seriously enough.”

“And Paul was just fine with that?” Richie asks.

“Paul seriously hated Misery by then, man,” says Eddie. “I think he liked it better whenever one of us would change a line or a direction. There’s this scene where I’m supposed to have this really long flowery outburst at a servant of Lord Geoffrey, and I hadn’t memorized that part of the script, so instead I just played it like I was exhausted as hell and fed up and told the servant to fuck off and get his man. He told me afterwards to keep playing it that way, and fuck the script.”

“Well, then, he knows a good thing when he sees it,” says Richie. “Think about it this way—you’re a better writer than he is, and he can tell.”

“I’m better at improvising than he is,” says Eddie.

“So?” Richie says. “It doesn’t mean you’re not a good writer.”

“I’ve never written a thing in my _life_ that wasn’t trying to placate the press,” says Eddie, sighing. “What would I even write about? Acting?”

“If you want to,” says Richie. “Hell, you could write about tacos and their health risks for the average middle-aged man, if that’s what you really want.”

“I’m not gonna write about fucking _tacos_ ,” says Eddie.

“Good, because I don’t wanna read food porn,” says Richie, “I get enough of it outta fantasy novels, I don’t need you describing a nice, juicy taco to me.”

“A nice, juicy _heart attack_ , you mean?” Eddie says, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe I’ll write that. Maybe I’ll write a cautionary tale about a writer who subsisted solely off donuts and tacos and then keeled over because of a fucking heart attack, the night before he could turn in the script for his series finale.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re a horror writer in the making,” says Richie. “I’d read it.”

“What, seriously?”

“I’d read anything you put out there.” Richie stares straight ahead at the road, so Eddie can’t get a read on his eyes. But his voice is sincere enough, and Eddie is pretty sure now that he knows what Richie sounds like when he’s being sincere. He’s being sincere now: there are no impressions, no funny business, just a soft voice in the darkness of the car, speaking as if this is a secret he’s offering up to Eddie. “I’d watch anything you put out there. Even Misery. But I want to read whatever you’re going to write, because I think—Eddie, I think it’s gonna be something else entirely.”

_Flatterer,_ Eddie wants to say, but this isn’t flattery. He knows flattery when he hears it, and Richie’s not trying to appeal to his ego. Hell, since when has Richie tried to appeal to Eddie’s ego? “You think way too highly of me, man,” he says, instead.

“ _Au contraire, mon ami,_ ” says Richie, in a dead-on French accent. “I am, how you say, simply telling eet like eet ees, _oui, oui?_ ” He huffs out a breath, then says, in his own voice, “Send whatever crappy-ass first draft you write to me first before you send it to anyone else, and I’ll shit red ink all over it, how about that?”

“You write, you edit, you do stand-up in cafés, you somehow manage to eat giant double-patty burgers without puking,” says Eddie. “What can’t you do? Oh, hey, turn right again.”

“Talk to a clown without vomiting,” says Richie. “How far are we from your place?”

“About an hour,” says Eddie. “And—you know what? Sure. You’re the writer here.”

“I’m the senior writer here,” says Richie. “You could be the junior. My apprentice. My young padawan.”

“We’re the same fucking age,” says Eddie, fondly exasperated, his heart speeding up just a mite faster at the encouragement in Richie’s words. He’s really doing this, isn’t he. He’s really going to take Richie’s advice and _write something_. 

He doesn’t know what just yet, but he will. 

Oh, he will.


	5. 2015 - V.

Two days after Eddie comes back to LA, he sees Paul off at the driveway after they’ve loaded up Paul’s shit into the trunk of his beat-up old Winnebago. “I swear to fucking god that thing’s gonna be the death of you one day,” says Eddie, leaning against the side of the garage door, well out of the car’s way.

“Well, it hasn’t killed me yet,” says Paul, patting the hood of his car with a fond smile. He pulls the door open now, and rests his elbow on the roof. “Hey, Eddie—you know something weird?”

“What?” Eddie asks.

“Even with your ex trying to smear shit about you that time,” says Paul, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy.” His fingernails drum against the metal of the old roof, a dull background noise over the hum of the sprinklers nearby. “Hell, a year ago I never would’ve pegged you for someone who wanted to write at all.”

“Lot of things can change in a year,” says Eddie.

“Yeah,” says Paul. “You met someone, for one thing.” A corner of his mouth quirks upward in a tired half-smile. “Take my advice, Eddie: if this someone is really that special to you, you keep it _quiet_. You keep it _secret_.” He sighs, then glances around the neighborhood, as if searching the streets for cameras or bloggers or fans. “Even if it comes out into the public, you just—keep whatever you can quiet. You and I both know what a spotlight can do to relationships.”

“I—haven’t met anyone,” says Eddie, but somehow, even in his ears, that rings strangely false.

“You could just say you don’t want to talk to me about it, you know,” says Paul, teasing. “Anyway, listen, my phone’s gonna be off, so if you try to call me, I won’t answer. If you _really_ need anything from me, just call my agent.”

“Rebecca Caldwell, yeah,” says Eddie. “Hey, Paul?”

“Yeah?” says Paul, already climbing in. He pokes his head out and looks up at Eddie, cocksure and carefree for, Eddie is suddenly certain, the last time. “What?”

Eddie hesitates, for a moment, a weight sinking deep into the pit of his stomach. Suddenly he wants to pull Paul out of the car, tell him not to go to Colorado, Christ, man, don’t you know the crime rates there? Don’t you know the accident rates? And you’re going to some tiny-ass log cabin in the middle of fucking _nowhere_? What’s gonna happen to you there? What if someone sees you in your dumpy little Winnebago and thinks: _here’s an easy target, just wait for the car to break down_? What then?

But he shuts his eyes, breathes in and out. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. In, hold, out.

The panic, brief as it came, subsides. “Wear your fucking seatbelt, do not drink and drive,” he says. “And be careful out there.”

“All right, all right,” says Paul, with a chuckle. “I get it, Kaspbrak. I’ll see you next year.” The door slams shut, and Paul pulls away from the car and drives down the road. Eddie briefly imagines him turning up the volume on his radio, singing along to AC/DC, and watches him go. Tries not to wonder what he might’ve said, if Eddie had asked him to stay.

(He doesn’t know it yet, but: This is the last time he sees Paul Sheldon like this, with that easy smile and long stride, a man savoring his triumph over his own creation for as long as possible. This is the last time Paul sees Eddie Kaspbrak like this too: a man on the verge of _something_ , but not quite able to grasp it yet. The next time they see each other, months from now, so much will have changed for either to recognize the people they used to be. But that’s months from now and)

Eddie takes his phone out of his pocket, dials Richie’s number, and says, “Hey, you doing anything today?”

“If I have to write one more word of this script I’m gonna drive to the beach and chuck my laptop into the fucking ocean,” says Richie, pleasantly. “Sheldon’s gone?”

“Yeah, Paul just drove off,” says Eddie. “Cleaning this place up is a two-man job.” He pauses, then adds, “Okay, a five-man job, so invite whoever the fuck else you want so we can do a better job, but I want you, specifically, to come help me turn this place into a habitable environment.”

“Well,” Richie drawls, in a deliberately terrible Southern accent, “Eduardo, I’m mighty flattered. Of course I’ll come on over to help ya clean up the homestead.”

“I can rescind the invitation,” says Eddie, not really meaning it.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” says Richie, dropping the accent. “Hold your horses. Just let me call a couple of people, and we’ll be coming over in an hour, if the traffic’s not too bad.” He pauses. “Realistically, two hours.”

\--

It takes an hour and a half for them to arrive, during which Eddie putters around the kitchen throwing some drinks and sandwiches together. There’s not a lot of non-alcoholic drinks, which ordinarily Eddie would let slide, but Richie’s mentioned being a recovering alcoholic and god knows who else he’s going to bring, so Eddie pulls out the apple juice from the back of the fridge and checks the expiration date. Then he chucks it into the trash and goes to buy some.

The coffee, at least, is still good. He brews up a few cups and sets them on the table to cool, just as Richie’s hot-rod red convertible parks right in front of the house. As Eddie walks out of the house to watch, the back door opens, and out spills a guy with the most, ah, creatively-gelled hairstyle Eddie’s ever seen. He very nearly falls flat on the sidewalk, but manages to catch himself in time.

Richie comes out next, shutting the door and ruffling the guy’s hair. As the guy squawks, trying to rearrange his hair back into something less messy, Richie saunters up to Eddie and claps him on the shoulder. “I brought friends,” he says. “Well. I brought people who have nothing better to do on Saturday than clean some shit up, anyway.” He nods to the two other people stepping out of the car: Max Sinclair and a tall young man that Eddie actually kinda recognizes—Jonathan something, some writer’s kid who got into acting.

“You bribed me into coming,” says Max, baldly.

“It’s this or Dad,” says Jonathan, “and he’s been acting kinda weird lately.”

“Duh, he’s a writer,” says Max.

“No, it’s—weirder than that,” says Jonathan. “He’s been trying to make his own word processor, lately.”

“His own app?” says the first guy.

“No, trying to bash together his own computer,” says Jonathan, pushing wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. “He’s been at it since he and Mom separated, but he keeps getting the really cruddy parts. I’m not sure why.”

“This is your crack cleaning crew?” Eddie asks, jerking a thumb at them and raising an eyebrow at Richie.

“I just got the people who were free today, man, Max and Phoenix would not have been my first choices,” says Richie.

“Yeah, because he likes Miles way better than me,” the guy with the ridiculous hair, who’s apparently called _Phoenix_ , grumbles good-naturedly.

“Miles is _fun_ to rile up,” Richie says, and something twists in Eddie’s stomach. Oh. Right. Richie’s friends with other people, and riling them up is how he shows affection. Eddie should honestly feel relieved about that, because there’s people he can commiserate with over the frustration of being friends with Richie. He _should_ , but instead something in his heart ties itself into an ugly little knot. “He’s all stuffy and shit, it’s hilarious watching him lose it.”

“Do you guys need anything?” Eddie says. “I made snacks and coffee—Rich, yours is the latte.”

“Oh, Eds Spagheds, you know me so well,” says Richie.

“Do _not_ fucking call me that,” says Eddie, horrified by the nickname, less so by the shit-eating grin on Richie’s face. It’s such a stupid, dumb, ridiculous thing to call anyone, let alone a man of nearly forty like Eddie, but—some part of him kinda likes it, likes how it sounds almost like a secret identity. “Especially not in front of _Max_.”

“It’s too late,” says Max, coming up to the door and pushing it open, “we already know.”

“I didn’t,” says Phoenix.

“Neither did I,” says Jonathan.

“I meant _we_ as in the cast and crew,” says Max. “If it helps, he nicknames Veronica.”

“Ronnie doesn’t mind,” says Richie, “ _Maxie_. Maximum Effort. Max-A-Million—”

“Richie Rich,” says Max, “Richard Von Dumbass, Richard the Bitchard—”

“If I hear any more names out of the both of you,” says Eddie, “I swear to god I will kick both of your asses out onto the street and let the LA sun deal with you.”

He doesn’t, of course. Instead he hands out sandwiches and cups of coffee and assigns everyone to rooms on the second floor of the house, where Paul’s bedroom, office, bathroom and storage room are. Jonathan, thank god for this kid, volunteers to take the bedroom, and even plays off Eddie’s warnings about what he might find there with a good-natured joke about having seen it all. “I live in Hollywood and my dad’s a writer,” he says. “It’s not like I’m a stranger to weird crap.”

The second he leaves, Eddie says, “Where the fuck did you find this kid? _How_ did you find this kid? He’s some kind of fucking unicorn.”

“Met his dad at the Golden Globes,” says Richie. “Guy’s nice, but he and his wife have been having some trouble lately and it’s really been wearing him and Jonny-boy out. I figured, why not get the kid to help?” He shrugs, shoulders hunching, and says, “At least he’d be able to fix _something_ in someone’s house.”

“That’s oddly nice of you,” says Eddie.

Phoenix sputters, and says, “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard someone call you _nice_ , Richie. What did you even do to this poor man?”

“Nothing!” Richie says, flinging his hands upward. Eddie leans back to avoid one of those big hands smacking him in the face, and tries very hard not to think about—about Richie’s pinky pressed against his in the car. About how Richie’s name is the most recent contact he’s called, how his voice grounded Eddie even with an ocean between them, how much Eddie wants even just to hold him. To be allowed to hold him. “I didn’t do shit!”

“He’s been dragging him all over LA to eat places,” says Max.

Phoenix raises his eyebrows, then looks at the two of them, eyes seeming to drink in every detail. Something about this level of scrutiny puts Eddie on edge—who is this guy? Besides some douchebag who’s probably seen too much of that anime shit? “Huh,” is all that Phoenix says.

“Okay, so I’ve been giving Eddie a culinary education,” says Richie. “But he _needs_ it. He’d never eaten street food before we met. Like, ever.”

“He’s exaggerating,” Eddie grumbles. “I ate a hot dog one time while doing _The Stand_.” Okay, he had tried to eat a hot dog and then proceeded to have a panic attack about it, but he’d taken a bite and swallowed it, surely it counts.

“ _One time_ ,” says Richie.

“Fuck you, you think everyone should eat donuts for breakfast,” Eddie says.

“This,” says Max, her voice a stage-whisper Eddie knows she wants him and Richie to hear, “is exactly what it’s been like for us on set.”

“Oh, wow,” says Phoenix. “I am _so_ sorry.”

Just for that, Eddie sticks Phoenix on bathroom duty. Richie’s put in charge of cleaning up the mess of an office that Paul’s left behind, with strict instructions to avoid opening the bottom drawer in his desk (because that’s where Paul keeps the _good_ shit), and Max stays with Eddie as they tackle Paul’s storage room.

“Oh, _wow_ ,” says Max, once she and Eddie step into the dusty room, armed with handkerchiefs, brooms, dusters, gloves, the works. The place is _crammed_ with knickknacks and trinkets, props and costumes and movie posters, boxes and boxes of records and books and photo albums, relics of a life that Paul lived once all stored away. One box reads LINDA, the other JESSICA—Paul’s ex-wives, Eddie figures. He doesn’t talk about them at all, and his college-aged daughter, who Eddie knows he loves, slightly more. “This place is like a museum’s back room.” She coughs.

Eddie hands her a handkerchief, then ties another one over his mouth and nose.

“God, you are such a boy scout,” Max marvels.

“My mom never let me join the boy scouts,” says Eddie. “I had a friend who had to teach me what he learned from them, instead.” He thinks. He must’ve learned them from _someone_ , but fuck if he remembers who they were.

“Your mom sounds like a dick,” says Max.

Eddie laughs, and it rings hollow in this space, this museum of someone’s past life, all packed up and hidden away. “Yeah, she kinda was,” he says, pulling the gloves on. “Okay, let’s get to work.”

\--

**love of my life**

_**Today** 11:07 AM_  
[IMAGE: a cramped, dusty garage.]  
cleaning out the garage with Eddie Kaspbrak  
don’t you wish you ditched your nerd friends to come hang out with me, your awesome wife

We’re recording a podcast!!

But yeah tbh I wish I did

Will is creaming us, I’m on half health, Mike is out of lay on hands, Jane is out of spells, and Dustin failed a death save

neeeeeeeerd

Baby I know you, you are dying over there

yeah but Richie’s taking us to good old Mickey D’s after this so really who won?

Still me

We have Krispy Kreme donuts

you had BETTER save some for me Lucas Sinclair or I am taking you to divorce court!!!

Of course I saved some for you Mad Max

I put a whole box in the fridge and labeled it for your use only

out of the kids’ reach?

Out of the kids’ reach, you’re WELCOME

you’re an angel  
hey, also, hot gossip coming your way  
but Richie just showed up in the garage and now he and Eddie are arguing with each other again  
I’m pretty sure they’re fucking

You tell me they’re fucking all the time

But two people arguing doesn’t mean they’re fucking, not everybody’s us

Will argues with his editor all the time but they’re not fucking

oh no Eddie and Richie are definitely fucking  
Richie just pulled out “Eddie Spaghetti Fettuccine Alfredo” and I swear to god  
I think Eddie was either going to kiss him or strangle him

Oh shit they’re in love

right!!  
hold on I gotta make sure I’m not in the same room as they are when they inevitably give in to the sexual tension

\--

The thing is. 

So the thing is.

So. 

The thing _is_ : Eddie knew he liked Richie. Like, romantically. But it had been in an abstract sense, and also, he was still—well, figuring himself out, kind of. Just yesterday while Paul was fast asleep in his bedroom, Eddie had checked out the gay porn category on Pornhub and thought, _Huh, this explains a lot._ So he knows that he likes guys, and he knows he likes Richie as a friend, and he knows he’s also at least somewhat… _interested_ in Richie, in that way.

So he’s not too worried when Max leaves them both alone in the garage to work together on organizing the shelves. He’s not worried about accidentally bumping against Richie. Hell, he’s not even that worried about, like, arguing with Richie, because it’s _Richie_. Arguing with him over trivial shit is just how they roll. Like so:

“ _Man of Steel_ wasn’t _that_ bad of a movie, come on,” Eddie says, shoving a drawer full of screws back into its place. He grabs some tools from where Paul scattered them over a table and starts placing them back onto their hooks. “You’re just being a dick about it because it went darker than other _Superman_ movies.”

“I _like_ dark shit!” Richie says from where he’s crouched down to sort through a box of car parts. So far, he’s sorted them into two piles: usable and scrap. “You’ve read my scripts, you know I like going to dark places, I’m just saying that fucking _Superman_? Maybe not the best place for a philosophical treatise on like, how fucked humanity is without an alien savior.” He points a spark plug at Eddie. “Plus, don’t lie, most of the movie was just boring as fuck.”

“Well, I’m _sorry_ that you need action and explosions to feel something for a character,” Eddie snipes back, as Richie tosses the plug onto the usable pile.

“I didn’t feel anything for this Superman at all!” says Richie. “Other than increasing boredom. Like, fuck, Zack, we get it, you know? You think Superman is Jesus. Please shut the fuck up about it.”

“Stop harping on about that, you fucknut,” huffs Eddie. “It’s only a _parallel_ , he’s trying to show Superman is just as fallible as the rest of us.”

“Fucking sucks at it, then,” says Richie, snidely. He picks up an empty container for brake fluid, then sticks it onto the scrap pile.

“You are so fucking wrong it’s incredible,” says Eddie. “How does it feel to be so wrong?”

“I don’t know, how do you feel?”

Eddie spins on his heel, says with feeling, “Oh, fuck you, bro.”

“Bro!” Richie says, delighted, leaning back on his palms and grinning up at him. “Fuck you too—also, _bro,_ I’m so honored to finally be known as a part of your family. Although that’s the wrong part, I’m actually your stepdad.”

“Ha fucking ha,” Eddie says, then glances down, eyes catching sight of—something white, or white enough to stand out in the dark. He gets down on his knees, hands patting around the sides of the desk near the wall, then picks it up. “Oh, _there_ it is,” he mutters.

“There _what_ is?” Richie asks.

Eddie straightens up, careful not to knock his head on the underside of the table. “The remote for the garage,” he says. “Paul and I must’ve turned the garage inside out looking for it two days ago, I thought it had been carted off by rats or something.”

“Unless the rats are smarter than we think they are, generally they don’t give a shit about anything they can’t eat,” says Richie. “Does it still work?”

“Lemme check,” says Eddie, and presses a button.

The garage door shudders to life. With a low groaning sound, it begins to rise, folding upward and letting the light stream in from the outside. Even now, as fall segues into winter, the LA sun still shines high in the sky, and Eddie steps closer to better bask in the heat of it. He shades his eyes from the sun and squints out into the street. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, “the fuck are the Mendozas trying to do, setting up their lawn gnomes like that? Get a goddamn complaint about indecency? I’ll write a fucking letter into the papers about them, see if I don’t.”

“That’s cute,” says Richie, coming up to stand beside him. He narrows his eyes, trying to find the offending lawn gnomes, and Eddie can just _see_ the moment he catches sight of them, because his eyes crinkle up with delight. His lips pull upward, and his shoulders begin to shake as his hand claps over his mouth. “Oh my _god_ , it looks like they’re _fucking_ ,” he says, before melting into helpless giggles.

Eddie turns to say something to him, and

(for a moment, for a brief, shining moment, they’re two kids walking away from the clubhouse, shooting the shit and trying to one-up each other’s dirty jokes, and Eddie’s always been a competitive little asshole, just ask anyone especially Richie, so even knowing it’s basically hopeless he _still_ slings insults at Richie anyway, the two of them batting jokes and roasts back and forth, playing hot potato with them and

Eddie doesn’t even remember what he said but suddenly Richie doubles over laughing, stick-like limbs folding in as he cackles, collapsing into the dirt, and he’s such a mess, this boy, all skinned knees and patches of dirt on pale skin, but Eddie crouches down to touch him and Richie grins up at him and it’s like the sun has come out from behind the clouds

_I think I love you I love you I_ )

“—am going to file a fucking complaint,” says Eddie, “because look at that!”

“I’m looking!” Richie says, leaning against the doorway now. In the sunlight, he looks—beautiful. He glows with delight and happiness, and he is so beautiful it hurts to look at him. Eddie looks anyway. “ _Je_ sus, this is on purpose, right? This has to be on purpose. Anyone with working eyes could see what those lawn gnomes look like they’re doing!”

“I’m pretty sure it’s on purpose, yeah,” says Eddie, watching Richie, the curl of his lip, the twinkle in his eyes. Watching him run his hand through his shaggy mop of dark hair. God, how would it feel to sink a hand into that hair? How would it feel to kiss those lips?

Richie turns to look at him, and Eddie, with effort, tears his gaze away, prays that Richie hasn’t noticed him looking. His wants are too big for his skin, he has to figure out some way to fit them so he doesn’t explode all over Richie. That would be messy, and Eddie’s not a big fan of messy.

“I wonder if you could make a movie out of that,” Richie says, contemplatively.

“Sounds like a shitty movie,” says Eddie.

“I’ll pitch it to Seth Rogen, he’s always up for shitting out crappy movies,” says Richie. “Hey, if you had to play a lawn gnome, what kind would you play?”

“You mean what kind of lawn gnome would be exactly my type to play,” says Eddie, deadpan.

“No, no, what you _want_ to play,” says Richie. “Fuck your type, forget about your type for a minute. What do you wanna do?”

Eddie snorts out a laugh. “Why, you gonna write the script?” he asks.

“I _might_ ,” says Richie. “And I’d have to give you a role, of course.”

“I want it on the record that I sure as fuck am not going to play a fucking lawn gnome,” Eddie says, “I already had to voice a squirrel. But if I had to, I wanna play the bad guy, and not just, like, the cool, collected bad guy, I wanna chew the fucking scenery up.” He jerks a thumb over at the lawn gnomes. “I mean, fuck, I wanna earn a fat paycheck but I’d love to have _fun_ doing it, you know?”

“You want half that lawn in your mouth, got it,” says Richie. His smile is lopsided, and fond, and soft. Eddie wants to feel that smile against his lips. “Just spitting out grass with every line.”

“Fuck you, you know what I mean,” says Eddie. “Hey. Rich?”

“Yeah?”

_I think I might be gay. I think I might be in love with you. I think I might’ve known you once in another life, that’s why we fit together so well._ “Do you ever—wonder? About what you don’t remember?” he asks instead.

“Ah, you mean the repressed childhood memories,” says Richie. “The ones I think my brain squeezed into a little box marked Do Not Touch for a good reason.” He chews on his bottom lip, then lets out a breath. “I used to,” he says. “Especially back when I was doing stand-up more actively. It sort of led to why I—” He stops, then shakes his head. “I don’t wonder anymore,” he says, simply. “If it’s in the past, it should stay there.”

“But what if you could learn from it?” Eddie argues. “What if there’s something you’re missing and the only way you can remember what it was is in the shit you repressed?”

“Then maybe it wasn’t worth keeping in the first place,” says Richie. “Maybe forgetting it was best for everyone. God fucking knows there’s shit I’d love to stuff in that box.” He stands up now, huffing out a breath. “Come on, Eddie,” he says, “the garage won’t sort itself out.”

And Eddie—well, Eddie knows a conversational end when he hears one.

_You don’t have to hide anymore,_ he wants to say to Richie. _You don’t have to keep secrets from me. You don’t have to pretend you’re fucking fine and dodge the subject when you don’t want to talk about it. You don’t have to keep your guard up. Let me in, please, let me in. I love you, I want to be your safe house._

But he doesn’t say anything as Richie steps out of the sun and back into the shadows of the garage.

What the fuck does Eddie Kaspbrak know about love, after all?

\--

**EXT. PRECINCT BALCONY. NIGHT.**

TOPHER leans on the railing with a cup of coffee in hand, drinking. His gaze is distant, heavy with thought.

We hear the click of heels. Topher turns slowly, and sighs, exasperated, before turning back to the view. EZRA is dressed impeccably well, as always, draining a mug of its bloody contents as he walks up to Topher, leaning against the railing beside him. The mug dangles from his hand over the street.

**EZRA**  
Wanna talk about it?

**TOPHER**  
Can’t imagine there’s anything to talk about, bud.

**EZRA**  
Toph, I think you know there is.

Topher looks away.

**TOPHER**  
I don’t want to talk about it.

**EZRA**  
No matter. I can make a guess.

Topher tenses. Ezra doesn’t move from his slouch over the railing, but his eyes meet Topher’s.

**EZRA (cont’d)**  
It’s her. Nancy. You care about her way, way more than a coworker would.

**TOPHER**  
So? We’ve established, to a truly humiliating and terrifying extent, that I actually care like, a whole lot for you assholes.

**EZRA**  
But she’s special, isn’t she?

He gestures to the window. NANCY can be seen writing up a file and talking to a shaggy-haired perp. She looks up, smiles at the window, and waves. Topher smiles at her and waves back, fond. Nancy drops her hand and goes back to work.

Ezra shoots Topher a knowing look.

**TOPHER**  
...don’t look at me like that, I get it. You see everything, you perceptive little turd.

**EZRA**  
Well, now! Not everything. 

Ezra hauls himself up onto the railing.

**EZRA (cont’d)**  
It’s just, you practically broadcast this shit so hard I can’t help but pick up on it. Which is really very rude, you know.

**TOPHER**  
(sarcastic) Wow, sorry I have fucking feelings.

He sips from his mug again.

**TOPHER (cont’d)**  
Anyway, it’s not like I’ll ever tell her about them. 

Ezra frowns down at him.

**EZRA**  
Why not?

**TOPHER**  
What we have is good, right now. I can’t be the asshole who ruins that.

**EZRA**  
Good fucking grief, man, you hear yourself? You sound like a guy from a rom-com.

**TOPHER**  
Not every one of us is you, Ez.

**EZRA**  
Thank fucking god, because I’m the only one of me. I’m a special snowflake, baby. But you—you’ve really gotta shoot your shot with her, you know. Before it’s too late.

**TOPHER**  
I am so not fucking listening to your romantic advice—

**EZRA**  
I’m just saying, you gotta keep your eyes on the prize here! And the prize is a fulfilling romantic relationship with the woman you love more than anything in this world. Hell, more than lattes.

**TOPHER**  
Maybe I shouldn’t get the prize, how about that?

Ezra reels back, as if Topher’s struck him a blow. He topples over the railing in his theatrics, but BAT-LIKE WINGS quickly expand from his back, and he flies upward to perch on the railing again.

**EZRA**  
Excuse me?

**TOPHER**  
Maybe she deserves a hell of a lot better than what I can offer her.

**EZRA**  
I don’t think that’s your call to make, man.

**TOPHER**  
It’s not your fucking call to make, either.

Topher straightens up, drains the rest of his mug in one go.

**EZRA**  
I’m trying to help.

**TOPHER**  
Don’t need it. I’m fine. Anyway, we should get back to work before the Captain sees us both out here. Especially you with your wings out like that, you know he’ll get on your ass about ruining your uniform. Again.

Topher starts walking back to the door.

**EZRA**  
You know what would’ve really ruined my uniform? Splattering on the sidewalk! Really fucks up my day having to regenerate bits of my brain and my fucking bones!

Topher has already stepped inside and shut the door. Ezra rolls his eyes.

**EZRA (cont’d)**  
Ass.

\--

They’re called back for reshoots as November creeps into December. Richie doesn’t strictly need to be there to supervise things—mostly it’s just a retread of old scenes with new camera angles and different emotional takes, no real changes to the script or new scenes to shoot.

“Unless Netflix wants a post-credits scene,” he says to Eddie, on day one of reshoots, the two of them drinking afternoon coffee together as Manny Jacinto starts his monologue over again, this time with a heavier emphasis on Jack’s neuroses. “Somebody else’ll handle that, not me. _Fuck_ post-credits scenes. You put everything important in the movie or you’re just a shitty filmmaker.”

“Fuck that, what if you’re trying to plant a hook for a sequel but you don’t know if the studio’ll let you do another movie?” Eddie says.

“If you’re good at it, you’ll make it a stand-alone movie and worry about sequels later!”

“The studios’ll turn _anything_ into a franchise, not thinking about possible sequels will bite you on the ass!” Eddie’s hand slices through the air as he says, “You’ve got to at least keep _some_ threads dangling or you’re gonna have to come up with a whole new thing!”

“Hey, Kaspbrak,” says one of the PAs, poking his head out of the studio, “you’re up in five.”

So Eddie’s busy most of the time. So Richie’s also a little less busy than he is: writing a spec script for a different show, checking e-mails and scrolling through his Twitter feed. But he shows up every day of the reshoots, dispensing sage advice like any of this is still in his hands, like it didn’t all spin out of his control the moment he signed that Netflix contract.

Sure, he doesn’t need to be here, but—he _wants_ to be. He wants to sit back and watch the magic again, watch how the actors turn the words on the page into something else entirely, even after god knows how many takes. He wants to see how they’ll spin their scenes, now that they’ve stepped away from the roles for a little while. He wants to _see_ , he’s got FOMO.

Pretty good excuses. Really, he’s just here because he wants to hang out with Eddie more. It’s as simple as that.

“Cut!” Ripton calls, snapping Richie out of his thoughts, and Eddie and Max pull away from each other again. “Cut, god, just—take a break, and then when you come back I’m gonna need some _romance_ in here, all right? Jesus. It’s like I’m trying to position cardboard cutouts.”

“We can still hear you!” Max yells, flipping him off.

Eddie doesn’t deign to dignify that with an answer, but he does flip the guy off as he walks over to Richie, then grabs him by the sleeve. “God-fucking-dammit,” he all but growls, nearly dragging Richie out of the studio. “I’m really starting to hate this Ripton asshole. Like, what the fuck does he even want?”

“I thought we went over this already, man,” says Richie, once they’ve ducked into a nearby alley, the same one he and Veronica hid in to talk about Eddie’s ex-wife so long ago. “Just picture you’re kissing Angelina Jolie. Or something.”

“I _am_ thinking about—about Angelina fucking Jolie,” hisses Eddie, beginning to pace, his hand mussing up his hair. Richie winces, already hearing, in his head, the utter verbal beatdown Eddie’s going to get from makeup and the continuity guy.

“Think harder then,” Richie advises. “Or about—you must’ve had a crush on a professor back in college, imagine you’re kissing her instead.”

“That would’ve been so fucking inappropriate,” says Eddie. “I didn’t have a crush on a _professor_. On a few other students here and there, yeah, but I didn’t—” He stops, then clamps his mouth shut, like he’s said too much.

“Didn’t what?” Richie prompts, gently.

“I never thought of them as crushes,” says Eddie. “Topher knows this is a crush, but more than that, he knows this is _way_ beyond a crush, way beyond just something that’s gonna pass, knows in his bones he’ll only be happy with _her_ , because she’s _his person_. She’s it for him.” He runs his teeth over his lower lip, and says, helplessly, “I’ve never felt that. With anyone, not even Myra. I don’t know how to _sell_ that in a kiss.”

“But you can fake feeling it,” says Richie.

“That’s what I’ve been doing my whole life,” says Eddie. “I thought it was good enough, but it’s _not_ anymore, and I—there’s someone I do want that I can’t have, and I don’t even know if I’ll be really _happy_ with them or if I’m just confused, and I don’t want them to get hurt by me, because I don’t know what love looks like.”

“Eds,” says Richie, stepping into Eddie’s way to put his hands on his shoulders and push him back so he can meet his eyes, “Eddie, no, hey. Whoever this is, I’ll betcha anything she’d be fucking stoked to meet you, to be your girl. Anyone would be, because you’re—you’re _you_. You’re the hottest guy in LA and as soon as this show drops, people are gonna love you. Because you’re _good_ at your job, but god, more than that, Eddie, you _care_ about it. Or else you wouldn’t be freaking out on me about not being able to get a fucking kiss right.”

“It’s the culmination of their romantic storyline, of fucking course I want to get it right,” huffs Eddie. His hands drift to Richie’s elbows, and stay there, holding on tight. “I want—I don’t _know_. I want to get it right. I want to get this _right_ , Richie.”

“And you will,” says Richie, “we’ll just have to figure something out. Is it Max? ‘Cause I could ask them to sub in a stuntwoman, if you don’t wanna lock lips with a married woman.”

“No,” says Eddie. “No, Rich—it isn’t just the kiss on the show, not anymore, at least. It’s—” He stops, hunches his shoulders, then says, “I’m—Richie, I. I think. I think Myra wasn’t wrong, about. Um. Who I wanted.”

Richie blinks at him. “Isn’t this the same woman who you had to block because she was trying to slide into your DMs?” he asks.

“Yeah, her,” says Eddie, sighing.

“Why’re you putting stock in the shit she threw out there about you, then?” Richie says. “ _You_ know you better than she does.”

“I think she got this part right at least, even if she was just guessing at what’d hurt,” says Eddie. “Richie, I—don’t freak out, okay? But I think I. Might be gay.”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Richie blinks at him. “Oh,” he breathes out. “Oh. That’s. Um.”

“Oh, god, you’re freaking out,” says Eddie, pulling away.

“No!” says Richie, reaching out to catch him by his elbow. “No, no, I—I’m just, like, recontextualizing some shit. Fuck, Eddie, I’m—I don’t know what to say when a friend comes out to me, so you’re gonna have to bear with me here, but uh. That’s cool?” He winces, because really. _Really._ Just over a decade he’s been a writer, but that’s the best he can do when his best friend and the probable love of his life comes out to him? Jesus. “That’s fine,” he says, more firmly. “It’s fine. _You’re_ fine. And I still stand by what I said, your ex doesn’t know shit.”

Oh god, Eddie still looks a little cornered. Richie _hates_ that look on him. It makes him look small. Eddie shouldn’t look all small and shriveled up and sad. Eddie’s a brave and huffy asshole spitfire, and Richie loves him that way.

“Eddie,” says Richie, as softly as possible. “Nothing’s changed, okay? You’re my best friend. It’s just that now you just have to imagine kissing Chris Evans as Captain America instead of Angelina Jolie.”

“That’s—specific,” says Eddie.

“He’s a good old all-American boy,” says Richie. “Everybody’s got a crush on him.”

“What if it’s someone else I have a crush on?” Eddie asks. “What if—What if I don’t know if they, if he wants me back that way too?”

Richie’s heart wrenches, at that. God, does he know how that feels. “You could use it, I guess,” he says, “but—god, Eddie, even if it means fucking up the kiss and pissing Ripton off, I think you should tell him.” How he manages to smile after that, he’ll never know, because this is _Eddie_ , and he wants him, god, he wants him so much his heart could burst with him. All his internal organs twist themselves into knots when Eddie’s around, his intestines spelling Eddie’s name with a heart over the i, his brain sticking on every touch, every laugh, every smile. If Eddie loves someone else, how is Richie supposed to move on? “You should tell him,” he says. “Just to get it off your chest.”

Eddie stares up at him, then says, “Richie—”

“Anyone would be lucky to be yours, Eddie,” says Richie, desperate for Eddie to _know_ just how worthy he is, how much he should be loved. “You’re something else. You’re like— _hot_ , yeah, but beyond that, you’re the whole fuckin’ package. Looks, smarts, personality.”

Eddie laughs, a little wetly. “You flatterer,” he says.

“I wouldn’t hang out with you this much if I didn’t like you for your personality,” says Richie. “I like you. I like you going on rants about shit that no one else cares about, means you’re passionate and you _care_ about the littler stuff.”

“Like public health,” says Eddie.

“Yeah, that,” says Richie. “You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re _brave_.” Eddie opens his mouth, and Richie places his finger on Eddie’s lips and says, “Shh, you know I’m right. You’re so much braver than you say you are. Than you think you are.”

Eddie closes his eyes and bows his head as Richie takes his finger off. For half a heartbeat, Richie thinks he’s pushed too hard, gone too far, but then Eddie opens his eyes and looks up at him again, and there’s a steel there now that there hadn’t been, five minutes ago. “Braver than I think, huh?” he says, then sucks in a breath. “Stop me anytime,” he says.

“What?” Richie does not manage to say, because before he can even get the word out of his throat, Eddie has already surged up to kiss him, more or less just smashing their lips together.

He stands stock-still for a moment, too shocked to return it. Then Eddie pulls away, frowning, and says, “You—Shit, Rich, I’m so sorry—”

Richie pulls him back in, and their second kiss goes as ungracefully as the first did—too much teeth, too much competition. Richie can taste coffee and candy, and another man’s saliva. _This is what Eddie Kaspbrak tastes like,_ some part of him still coherent enough for thought marvels. The rest of him is too preoccupied with Eddie’s tongue licking into his mouth, Eddie’s hand on his hip, the curve of the back of Eddie’s neck, and the sudden jello-like substance his legs seem to have been transmuted into, like that one anime with the short blond kid.

Eddie breaks away again and says, “Jesus fucking _Christ_.”

“How long?” Richie croaks, still a little thrown by the events of the past five minutes. “How—How long have you been sitting on this?”

“I don’t know,” says Eddie. “A while? But I knew after we cleaned out the garage.”

“You’re fast, that was weeks ago,” says Richie. Then he lets out a breath, and says, “Eddie, I’ve been in love with you since—I don’t know, maybe since day one? But—you know how your ex tried to launch a smear campaign, and we talked about it?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Eddie, frowning up at him. God, he’s weirdly cute even when he’s frowning. It should not be possible for a guy of nearly forty to be this cute. Should be downright criminal, even.

“So the tech crew passed by with this spotlight,” says Richie, “and I looked at you with this spotlight right behind you, and then it hit me: that I really—that I loved you. I love you.” He ducks his head, and says, “I never said ‘cause I didn’t think you were gay. Fuck, I didn’t even know if you were okay with that. And I want you to be comfortable more than I wanted to fuck you. I—I _know_ what it’s like, to have someone not give a shit about you, just what you can do for them.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything. But his hand presses against Richie’s cheek, and he says, “If it helps, I had no idea either.” He huffs out a mirthless laugh. “Probably should’ve realized it sooner, huh?” he says. “It took me almost forty years and a failed marriage to even begin to figure it out. I always just thought I wasn’t into sex.”

“I knew since—forever, I guess,” says Richie. “That I was gay.” He shrugs, and drops his hands, stuffing them into his pockets to hide their tremble. “I tried to fix it back in college,” he admits, “but it didn’t take. Then I tried to fix it again so I could break into comedy, but not only did that not take, but—you know, they wanted me to use ghostwriters instead?”

“Seriously?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah, ‘cause I didn’t have appeal, ‘cause I couldn’t pen a word about wanting to fuck a girl without it sounding fake as hell,” says Richie, the words ringing in his head once more. _You want to make it, don’t you, kid?_ And god, had he wanted to. “And I did.” Just another regret to throw onto the pile.

“You have fucking boatloads of appeal,” says Eddie, fiercely.

“Not to a wider audience,” says Richie, falling into a Voice, quoting from memory, before he shakes his head. “I tried, Eddie. I tried and it—I wasn’t cut out for it. I’m good at pretending, _great_ at it, but something in me broke.” He turns to slump against the wall, and after a moment Eddie slumps down with him, his hand on Richie’s, as Richie presses the palm of his free hand to his temple. “I wanted to fucking drown that something. I wanted to fucking make it. So—well. The alcohol, at first, and then whatever else I could get my hands on.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything, but his hand squeezes Richie’s, and that means the world to him. That means he can keep talking and Eddie will listen, which is good, because now that he’s started talking about this he can’t fucking stop.

“I met a guy,” he says. “He—We were _something_.” He exhales, the memory bubbling up, and for the first time in a while doesn’t try to stuff it back into a box. No one else is around but Eddie, and Eddie’s already bared his soul to him, so fair’s fair. “And he introduced me to the shit that you could really get fucked up on, but by that point I didn’t care. If it got my attention off this fucked-up lie I was living then, hey, who gives a shit, right. If I could go onstage without a twinge of guilt, who gives a shit. If I could _make it_ , who gives a fucking shit what I did to get there.”

“Something?” Eddie asks.

“I mean, I was in love with him and we fucked regularly,” says Richie, “but he was a dickhead and I was a closet case _and_ a dickhead. We didn’t work out.”

“He’s not—” Eddie starts.

“He left LA a long fucking time ago,” says Richie. “Last I heard he was selling weed brownies in San Francisco, and that’s all I wanna know.” He sighs, and runs his hand through his hair, making a face at how damp it’s become from the sweat. “And then the burnout got worse and worse, and I just kept pushing through anyway and the next thing you know, I have to be rushed to the hospital. Because guess who fucking collapsed mid-show.”

“Oh, fuck,” says Eddie. “God, Rich, I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” says Richie.

“Still,” says Eddie. “Jesus, didn’t your management see what was going on before then?”

“Well, they saw a fuckload of money,” says Richie. “And then they saw that same fuckload of money going right down the drain if I didn’t check into rehab, so I did. Checked right back out the second I could, and then—I would’ve gone right back to old habits, you know? If Ronnie didn’t call me up then.”

She’d been frantic with worry, when she called him, her voice fraught and distressed. Richie hadn’t been able to love her the way he wished he did, yes, but he still loved her, and the sound of distress cracking her voice had made him sit up and ask what was wrong, what he could do to make it okay. _Don’t throw your life away,_ she had said. _Please, Rich. Please. I don’t want to lose anyone else._

He’d never asked just who she’d lost, that she sounded so scared for him. It was only later that he found out: a friend of hers, a woman named Betty Finn, had died in a car crash just that same week. Someone had gotten behind the wheel drunk, and crashed right into Finn’s car. He had wondered, then, what she thought when she heard that her old friend Richie Tozier had walked out of rehab in record time.

It hadn’t, of course, been smooth all the way, even with Veronica there to help him back up when he tripped, even when she called in people like Phoenix to help him get out of his contract, even when he found Casilda and Carrie and a group he could drop in on every so often. He’d backslid a couple times before managing to quit for good, and the thing about addiction is that even then it still hangs over him like a specter. He could _still_ backslide.

Eddie squeezes his hand again. “What happened next?” he asks.

“I dropped out of the spotlight,” says Richie. “I dropped out of the contract, got Phoenix—Nicky to help me out there, and I laid low for a while. And I wrote.” He looks up at the sliver of blue sky they can see from the alleyway now, watching as wisps of white drift over their heads. “Mostly just shit, ‘cause I’d been using ghostwriters and fell out of the habit, but then I got back into the swing of it. It helped, having something to do, and once I got back into it, a dam just broke.”

“And it all just came flooding out onto the page,” says Eddie.

“Not all of it,” says Richie. “I can count on one hand exactly how many times I’ve said or written the words _I’m gay_ over the past fifteen years to someone else. I never—I’m not _brave_ , Eddie, not like you.” He looks back down to meet Eddie’s eyes now, those big brown eyes that had caught Richie’s attention from day one, even from an image on his Wikipedia article. “You’re the first person since Ronnie that I’ve told,” he says, shakily.

Eddie sucks in a breath. “Thanks,” he says, the word a clumsy thing, “for—for trusting me. With all of this. God, Richie. You’re wrong, you _are_ brave.” He all but clambers into Richie’s space, planting his hands on both sides of his face. “You’re sober and you’re writing your own fucking show and you’re still here and you stuck it the fuck out, man, you’re _brave_. If I’m braver than I think then dammit, Rich, so are you. _So are you._ ”

“You don’t know that,” Richie protests.

“I know you,” says Eddie, and leans in to kiss him again. When he breaks away, he says, “We’re both fucking scared. But we can be—we can be scared together. Or brave together.”

“Long as we do it together, huh,” says Richie.

“Yeah,” says Eddie, and despite himself, despite the voice in the back of his head pointing out the stupidity of this, the things they would be risking if they kept this up—Richie believes him.

When they go back to work, Eddie kisses Max with everything he has. “Perfect!” Ripton says after the take. “Why the fuck was this so hard for you earlier, huh?”

Richie doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s eyes slide towards him, the smile that touches his lips.


	6. 2015 - VI.

Richie takes Eddie out on a few dates—of course he does, he’s not a fucking asshole. He wants to do this right, even if they have to keep everything on the down-low so no one realizes they’re actually dating. He treats Eddie just the same on these dates, but measures each hug, each touch, each look against a yardstick in his head: how long can they hold this hug, so no one notices that it lingers? How far can he go with touching Eddie, so no one calls foul on them? How many looks can he steal, so no one can accuse him for every one? How far, how many, how much, before someone notices?

The answer is: nobody notices Richie holding Eddie’s hand under the table, or Eddie’s ankle knocking against his. At least for now.

“God, this actually tastes _good_ ,” says Richie, after a spoonful of arroz caldo from the Filipino stall at Grand Central Market. It isn’t Eddie’s first time flipping the script on him and taking him somewhere, but usually it’s places Richie is already aware of. Not this time. “Where have you been hiding this the whole time? You ass. You _know_ I’m always on the lookout for shit like this.”

“I only found out about this place just last week,” huffs Eddie, which, okay, explains his silence on this stall. “Molly recommended it to me and I figured, fuck, why not?” He takes a sip of his iced tea and says, “This is the sweetest tea I’ve ever tasted in my life, I can already feel my teeth rotting.”

“Gimme that if you’re gonna be ungrateful about it, I’m all out,” says Richie.

“Fuck you, no,” says Eddie, inching the drink closer to himself. A bit of it sloshes over the rim, spilling onto Eddie’s fingers. “Get a fucking refill.”

“Actors,” scoffs Richie.

“ _Writers,_ ” Eddie counters, and kicks lightly at his shin.

Richie spoons some chicken porridge into his mouth, then slips his spoon out slowly, making sure to exaggerate the popping noise at the end of it. Sure enough, he can see the tips of Eddie’s ears turn red. “You have to watch _The Room_ with me tomorrow,” he says. “I can’t believe you’ve never seen it. It’s the best worst movie that’s ever been made. It’s screened on a weekly basis in at least three theaters here that I know about. It’s so fucking _bad_ it somehow loops all the way around into being a goddamn masterpiece.”

“Why the fuck would I do that to myself?” Eddie asks.

“Because if I have to suffer, so do you,” says Richie, pointing the spoon at him. “Anyway, it’ll be fun. You get to dress up, act out, shout lines at the screen.”

“God, no,” says Eddie. “At least _Rocky Horror_ ’s catchy. This doesn’t sound like it even has that much.”

“Eddie my love,” says Richie, watching Eddie straighten at the sound of the endearment, “the movie is _very_ catchy. It sticks in your brain like a stone in your shoe that just won’t fucking leave.”

Eddie rolls his eyes upward. “That doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement,” he says.

“You wanted _catchy_ , man,” says Richie. For a moment he’s almost tempted to say _fuck it_ and reach across the table to take Eddie’s hand, press a kiss to the knuckles like he’s a gentleman in a show where everybody has shitty British accents and Eddie’s a particularly shitty lady. Then he stomps down on the temptation, and knocks his ankle against Eddie’s instead. “Come on. Watch the bad movie with me. I’ll tell you all the crazy shit that happened behind the scenes.”

“You are such a nerd,” says Eddie, fondly. “Fine, I’ll watch the shitty movie with you. Now eat your porridge.”

When the lunch is done, Richie takes Eddie back to his car, and they hold a round of rock-paper-scissors to determine who gets to drive this time—a prime position that puts the driver in charge of the music and the A/C. Eddie wins this round, so Richie slides into the passenger seat, bitching all the while about Eddie’s awful music taste.

“Well, I’m _sorry_ you’ve only ever seen fuckin’ _Cats_ , Rich,” says Eddie, plugging his phone into the auxiliary and scrolling through his playlist.

A slow, mellow tune drifts out of the radio. Neil Patrick Harris’ voice sings, _When the Earth was still flat, and clouds made of fire, and mountains stretched up to the sky, sometimes higher…_

“You’re fulfilling the gay stereotype right here,” says Richie, gravely.

“People like Broadway!” Eddie says, defensively, as they pull away from the curb to NPH’s crooning. “Broadway’s got a wide appeal!”

“Tell me there’s something other than musicals on your phone, Eddie,” says Richie, fake-begging, and Eddie rolls his eyes toward the roof of the car. “Please! Some AC/DC! Some Cyndi Lauper, even!”

“Now who’s the gay stereotype?” Eddie shoots back.

“Touché,” says Richie, dramatically flopping back into his seat with his hand over his heart. “Seriously, though: Don’t you have podcasts or something on your phone?”

“Nah,” says Eddie. “Podcasts put me right to sleep.”

“You have been _on_ podcasts,” says Richie. “I have heard you talk a mile a minute about the movies that made you—”

“Oh, my god, you listened to that episode—”

“I listen to every one of their episodes!” Richie says. “And then I ended up listening to yours twice. You’ve got good taste.”

“I’m—flattered, thanks,” says Eddie, his face tinged a slight red, his eyes fixed on the road. “Yeah, I was on a couple of podcasts, but that doesn’t mean I can listen to them either. Every time I hear my own voice in a podcast I desperately wish I was already asleep so I don’t have to.”

“I like it,” says Richie, “it wakes me right up.”

“Because you’re biased,” says Eddie, but a corner of his mouth twitches upward. “You like me.”

“I also like Captain America, but it’s not his voice I wanna hear in the morning,” says Richie. “Just yours.”

“Is this your way of asking me to stay over?” Eddie asks.

“Well, it wasn’t, but it totally could be,” Richie says. “What do you say? Wanna spend the rest of the afternoon with me in my apartment?”

“Ooh, hard choice, let me think about it,” says Eddie, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel and slowing the car as the stoplight turns yellow, stopping at the intersection when it turns red. “Of fucking course I want to,” says Eddie, turning now to Richie. His hand slips into Richie’s, and squeezes tight. “I’m free the whole day, fuck yes, I want to spend it with you.”

\--

“You live like this?” says Eddie, when Richie opens the door to show him his spacious studio apartment. Or—well, it would be spacious, if not for the sheer amount of clutter scattered all over the place. Jesus. Eddie can feel his blood pressure rising to dangerous levels already. “Seriously? Rich, this place looks like a fucking _pig sty_.” The moment the words are out he regrets them thoroughly, because goddammit, even if your boyfriend’s apartment looks like a pig sty, you don’t just say that shit to their face. Especially not if the relationship is maybe two weeks old.

But Richie rolls his eyes, and says, “You live with Paul Sheldon. The only reason why he wasn’t as messy as this was ‘cause he had a bigger place _and_ you for a roommate.” He shuts the door behind him, starts picking up papers and stacking them up here and there. “Anyway, I swear, if I knew you were going to come over today I’d have cleaned the place up first thing in the morning.”

“God, sorry,” says Eddie. “I am—such a fucking asshole. Here, let me.”

“Eds,” says Richie, surprise flashing across his face, as Eddie pulls the papers from him and starts stacking them in a much neater manner than Richie’s, “you don’t have to, you know? It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“Yeah, well, it was shitty of me, so there,” Eddie grumbles, and Richie huffs out a soft laugh in answer. “Jesus, Rich, it isn’t funny.”

“Sorry, sorry,” says Richie. “No, to me it’s funny. I’m not offended, man, I’m totally inured to this by now.” He presses a kiss to the side of Eddie’s mouth, and Eddie’s stupid heart beats fast against his ribcage, against the walls of his hollow chest. This is dangerous, he knows. If this gets out and they can’t control the spin, god knows what’s going to happen to them both. But he can’t not love Richie, can’t not feel that burst of warmth in his lungs whenever Richie kisses him, whether it’s a casual peck or a deeper kiss. Might as well try to direct babies and animals and baby animals.

So they clean up Richie’s apartment until it looks at least twenty percent more presentable, and then collapse on his unbelievably pink sofa to watch _Ruthless People_ , where Danny DeVito tries very hard to encourage two hapless kidnappers to kill his wife Bette Midler.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” says Eddie, halfway through, “but I really hope those kidnappers get that ransom money. They’re the people I least want to punch through this entire movie.”

“What did you expect, it’s called _Ruthless People_ ,” says Richie, his hand squeezing Eddie’s. They’d started out on opposite ends of the couch, but Eddie’s decided that he’s way more comfortable leaning against Richie’s side, head resting against his shoulder, and Richie seems just fine with it. After all, it’s easier access to the bucket of popcorn sitting on Eddie’s lap, tipped at an angle to allow for Richie to grab handfuls whenever he feels like it.

“Everyone else is either an asshole or they’re so fucking stupid it’s a wonder they know how to _breathe_ ,” Eddie says.

“That’s just Earl,” says Richie.

“He is _so fucking dumb,_ ” says Eddie, and Richie laughs. It’s a nice laugh. It feels nice like this especially, when Eddie can feel it pressed against his side.

“He is, isn’t he,” says Richie, delighted. His head turns, and his lips press against Eddie’s temple again. He gets like this when they’re in private, like all the affection gets backed up behind a dam when they have to go out in public and the dam breaks the second they’re by themselves again. Eddie waits a second or two, then turns to press a kiss to the side of Richie’s neck.

Then he waits till the police surround DeVito and the kidnapper before he says to Richie, “So what are you doing for Christmas?”

“My Aunt Jolene’s hosting this year, so I’m going to New Hampshire for Christmas,” says Richie, and—oh. Well. That’s. Eddie hadn’t really thought Richie would be _leaving_ for Christmas, but he has family he actually likes, doesn’t he, unlike Eddie who’s estranged from pretty much everyone he’s related to. “It’ll be a week straight of Christmas carols and family fun. I’m already planning an excuse with Mom, Dad, my sister and her kids so we can all leave early.”

“Why?” Eddie asks, baffled.

“No one wants to be in Aunt Jolene’s house for a week,” says Richie, matter-of-factly. “It’s a terrifying shrine to her fifteen cats. Also I think she votes Republican, and Liz’s husband Avan is brown and a Muslim, not to mention not coming for Christmas.”

Eddie shudders, already picturing the strained family dinners. “Oh, god,” he says. “Yeah, definitely get out of there.” He pauses, then says, “So how long are you gonna be there?”

“About three days,” says Richie. “Christmas Eve, Christmas, then we leave the day after Christmas if we can swing it.”

Three days of rattling around Paul’s house by himself, with nothing to do but read scripts, e-mail directors like Tommy Lane and talk to his agent. Most productions have shut down for Christmas, although if Eddie can get his agent to broaden the search a bit, he can probably get a part in a one-night Christmas play or something. Maybe play Joseph.

God, play Joseph and all the while miss Richie, miss his company, miss the warmth of him, miss his grin and his bad jokes and his laugh, high and bright like starlight.

 _I wish you’d stay with me,_ he thinks, selfishly. Indulges that thought for a second, before shamefully letting it go. Richie is his own person, and he must love and miss his family. He’s probably been looking forward to seeing them again. Eddie can’t demand that he stay here and keep some sad lonely bastard of a boyfriend happy on Christmas. And he can’t ask to come along either, because god knows if Richie’s out to anyone in his family.

Instead he says, “Text me when you come back so I can pick you up from the airport.”

“Oh, you wanna take me home and lay me out in bed like a present?” Richie says. Then he pauses. “That’s, uh. That’s something you wanna do, right?”

Funny, there’s something sticking in Eddie’s throat at the thought of it. God, does he _want_ Richie, there is no question about it. One time Richie’s shirt had ridden up and exposed a strip of skin, and suddenly Eddie had wanted to get his hands on him, get his mouth on it, taste salty sweat and skin. It’s just—

Well. _Sex._ With a guy Eddie truly loves. And historically he’s never, like, actually been very good at it? Certainly he and Myra had sex a couple of times, but it had never been very good for either of them, and they had both agreed some couples did perfectly fine sleeping in separate bedrooms and only scheduling sex every so often. Never mind that every time the day approached Eddie had a panic attack about it. God, is he going to have to schedule sex with Richie? That feels like a sign of big trouble in a relationship.

He’s gone without answering for too long, because Richie shifts a little and says, with a tone of worry, “Eds? Eddie, if you don’t want to get busy in the near future, it’s fine. I know not everyone’s into it—”

“I do,” Eddie blurts. “Uh. I mean. Yeah, I’d _like_ to. I just—” He pauses, then waves a helpless hand between them. “I’ve had sex with women,” he says. “That’s basically it. I’ve done _research_ —”

“Wait, you did _sex research?_ ” Richie squawks. “Did you watch porn? Did you—”

“Yes, okay, I had to be _sure_ ,” Eddie huffs. “But research and experience are two completely different things, okay, and anyway porn is unrealistic, it’s just _ooh, take it, take my big fucking cock, I’ll split you open_ , and honestly that just sounds like a trip to the emergency room waiting to happen.” He pauses, then says, “So yeah, I wanna do it. But I wanna prepare first.”

Richie’s face has turned a shade of red that Eddie has never before seen on another human being. “Uh,” he says, intelligibly. Then he coughs. “When you say prepare,” he starts, “does that mean you want a sex spreadsheet or something? A sex schedule?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Eddie huffs. “I meant—would you seriously be okay with that? Either a sex spreadsheet or a sex schedule?”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” says Richie. “Honestly a sex schedule would really just be on-brand for us. We’re busy and we do so much shit all the time, it’d be nice to just block a couple hours off for rampant dicking down. Or making love.”

Eddie really kinda doubts either of them will be able to stick to a schedule. He knows himself well enough to know that he has very little patience when it comes to Richie Tozier. “What about just the spreadsheet?” he says. “I’ll make one and send you the link, and we just—put down what we’re fine with. And then when you get back from Christmas at your aunt’s we can take it slow.”

“Sounds like a great plan,” says Richie, beaming.

God, Eddie is going to miss that smile, when Richie goes.

“Yeah, hope you enjoy your Christmas present, man,” he says.

\--

Myra calls him on Christmas Eve.

It’s Eddie’s fucking fault for picking up the phone. Everyone who’s going to call around for Paul already knows where he is, and the man’s daughter has probably already given him her greetings. But Eddie’s in a surprisingly good mood, and expecting Richie to call, so when he picks up he says, “Yeah, hi, how’s your Christmas going?”

“Eddie?” Myra says, and Eddie’s good mood shrivels up and dies. “Oh, it’s so good to hear from you!”

“Yeah,” Eddie manages. Goddammit. She’s calling from a pay phone, isn’t she. “It’s, uh, good to hear you’re alive, Myra.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, because—fucking hell. What a fucking Christmas present. “What the hell do you want?”

“You don’t have to take that tone with me, you know,” says Myra, chiding. “I just wanted to see if you could talk to a few people on my behalf. And, you know, maybe we could meet up! For old times’ sake.”

“No,” says Eddie, flatly.

“Why not?” she asks.

“Let’s start with the smear campaign, how about that,” says Eddie. “The—What the _fuck_ were you trying to accomplish, telling people ‘oh, my husband’s gay and very closeted’? What the hell was your _plan_ there?”

“I thought maybe then you’d cave and listen!” Myra says. “Because I _understood_ you, you know, I understand that sometimes men have some—issues, but I’ve known plenty of people who were happy enough in the closet!”

Eddie closes his eyes, and thinks of Richie, the way he’d hunched in on himself and looked down at his hands when he’d said _this fucked-up lie I was living then_. Thinks of his own anxiety ratcheting up to panic attack levels every time he had sex with his wife. Thinks of Richie’s smile, the warmth of his hand.

“You don’t know them well enough,” he says. “And you don’t know me, Myra.”

“But _Eddie_ ,” she says. “We were married! I do know you. I know you’re probably lonely, and I hate to think of it—you being lonely, with no one else in the world…”

“I’m seeing someone right now,” says Eddie. “So actually, no, I’m not lonely.” He breathes out slowly, heart a jackhammer in his chest. “Please, Myra. Find someone else. Anyone else. I don’t fucking care, they’ll treat you better than I ever did, I’m sure. Just leave me alone, okay?” His hand grips the edge of the counter, tightly. “If you want money, I can give you some to help you get on your feet. But if you want an audition, or a role, you’re gonna have to talk to your agent instead, and by god, I’ll make damn sure you and I don’t work together on the same set. And if you want _me_ , well.” He laughs, a mirthless, broken thing. “You’re shit out of luck.”

“ _Eddie_ —”

He’s let this call go on for long enough. “Merry Christmas, Myra,” he says, bitterly, and slams the phone back down on the receiver. Then he lets go of the counter and slumps down until his ass hits the ground.

God-fucking-dammit, he has to call his lawyer, ask about restraining orders and gag orders and shit, and he has to brace himself because Myra is bound to lash out again in the press, and god knows what she’ll use against him this time. He can just imagine her dabbing at her eyes while she talks about his issues with his mother, god. He’ll have to call his PR manager again, and won’t that be such a fun conversation to have— _hey, I mouthed off to my ex, she’s going to try and drag my name through the mud again, can you do something about that before it happens and with no real clue what she’s going to use as ammo?_

He wants to call Richie. Yeah, it’s such a stupid thing to do, he knows, calling Richie for comfort when he’s in the middle of a family reunion and probably having a great fucking time. But damn it, Eddie wants to hear his voice right now. Wants to hear his laugh, his stupid impressions, his jokes.

So he gets up, tracks his phone down (in the basement bedroom), and then migrates to the living room to call.

When Richie picks up, the first thing he says is a conspiratorially-whispered, “Fucking save me from my Aunt Jolene, Eddie. I think she’s gonna try to feed us all to her cats.”

“Hi, Rich,” Eddie says, his shoulders relaxing, his intestines unknotting at the sound of Richie’s voice. “Sure, give me a couple of days to fly there, I’ll pencil in saving you into my busy Christmas schedule.”

“It’s fucking _Christmas_ , no one’s doing shit on Christmas,” says Richie. “What schedule?”

“My sex research schedule, asshole,” says Eddie. He’s rewarded immediately by Richie’s laugh, and the sound of it eases the knot his heart has tied itself into.

“Oh, of course,” says Richie. “Gotta get in plenty of… _research_.” Eddie can see, clear as day in his mind’s eye, Richie’s salacious wink accompanying the word. “Seriously, though, you okay?”

Eddie sighs, rubs at his temples. “Myra called,” he says, simply.

“Oh, shit,” says Richie. “I thought you and Paul blocked her.”

“She used a payphone this time,” says Eddie.

“What the _fuck_ ,” says Richie. “Dude, get a restraining order. Do you want me to lend you Nicky? I’ll lend you Nicky. Or even Miles.”

“I’ve got my own lawyer, Rich,” says Eddie, a little touched by how fast Richie’s offering to help him. “Got one for the divorce a while back, I’ll give him a call. I just—it’s fucking _Christmas_. Everyone’s off doing shit with their family for the holidays.” 

Which begs the question of why Myra’s not with her family in Ohio, right now. Sure, her family’s not exactly the best one, Eddie still remembers all the passive-aggressive jabs Myra and her sister aimed at each other over the Thanksgiving turkey, the thinly-disguised disdain her parents held for literally everyone around them including each other, but—yeah, okay, he can see why she wouldn’t want to head to Ohio either. Same reason why Eddie himself would rather act alongside some puberty-ridden kid and a crocodile rather than head to his Aunt Kathy’s place in Maine.

“Do you want me there?” Richie asks, quietly. “I can blow this joint fast, if you do.”

God, he does. He wants Richie here so much, wants to get into his space, wants to kiss him deep and claim him forever, wants to put his mouth on his neck and then lower, lower, lower down. Wants him so much he’s almost giddy with it.

“No, it’s fine,” Eddie says, because one of them has to enjoy his time with his family. And Richie talked about his sister and his parents with a real smile, like he’d been looking forward to seeing them again. Eddie can’t take that away from him just because he’s lonely and fresh off a shock. “I just wanted to hear your voice,” he admits.

“Oh,” says Richie, caught off-guard. Eddie smiles to himself.

Then Richie says, in a truly awful Goofy impression, “Aw, _gawrsh_ , Eddie, you do know how to make a guy feel all special!”

“I take it back, you fucking suck,” Eddie informs him. “I’m hanging up on you.”

Richie laughs, and says, in his own voice, “You said you wanted to hear me! You signed up for this!”

“I am going to fly all the way to New Hampshire to kick your fucking ass,” Eddie says. “You dick.”

“Whisper more sweet nothings in my ear, Eddie my love,” says Richie, “tell me all about how you miss me so much that you’d fly all the way out here, on Christmas Eve, to kick my ass.”

“So fucking hard,” Eddie says, sitting down on the sofa and picking at his pajama pants. “Your _nephews_ will feel it. They’ll wonder why a footprint just appeared on the seats of their pants and you’ll have to explain that one of your actors got pissed at you.”

“Don’t do that to Amir, he’s like, _nine_ and he’s never done anything to you,” says Richie, amused. “What’re you doing right now?”

“Just—nothing, basically,” says Eddie. “Was thinking maybe I’d write? Like you said. I don’t know what to write about, though.”

“Write whatever,” says Richie.

“That’s so fucking helpful, Rich,” says Eddie, sarcastically.

“I can’t exactly tell you what to write here, Eds,” Richie says, and what gets him is that Richie’s reasonable about it. Like, god-fucking-dammit, does he have to sound so reasonable about this? “The shit I like to write is different from the shit you’d probably like to write. I could send you some books to read, I guess? But I can’t tell you what to write, I’m not your professor.”

“I’m not gonna write a fucking screenplay right off the bat,” says Eddie. “I’m not—That’s too much for a first try.”

“Oh, thank god, I only have one copy of the really good ones about screenwriting,” says Richie, “and I love you, but I don’t want you to see all the annotations I made to them.”

“Well, now I want to see,” says Eddie, leaning back against his (well, Paul’s) plush sofa. His stupid heart is beating double-time in his chest. _I love you,_ Richie had said, so deliberately casual that Eddie couldn’t help but hear the tremble behind it.

“Oh, god, no,” says Richie. “I’ll never hear the end of it if you do.”

“Come on, it’s not like you wrote shit like Mr. Richie Ford or something,” says Eddie, with a snort of laughter.

Richie coughs. “It wasn’t _Ford_ ,” he says, delicately.

“...oh my fucking god, you wanted to fuck Mark Hamill,” says Eddie, the light of realization dawning on him.

“Shut up!” Richie snaps.

“You wanted to have wild sex with _Luke fucking Skywalker,_ ” says Eddie, almost gleeful with this new knowledge.

“That black suit in ROTJ _did things_ for me, okay,” says Richie, the fake heat in his voice not very convincing, “it looked amazing on him _and_ it was—thematically appropriate.”

“Is that what gets you going?” Eddie asks. “Culmination of a theme or something? Should I dye my hair blonde and wave a lightsaber around?”

“Well, sure, if the theme is ‘blue balls’ and the culmination is an orgasm,” says Richie, and a laugh tears right out of Eddie’s throat right then. He can’t stop it even if he wanted to, and he kinda doesn’t want to. “Anyway, I haven’t seen Star Wars in fucking years, so. You don’t have to dye your hair and buy a lightsaber dildo.”

“There’s a what, now?”

Richie snickers. “Lightsaber dildo,” he says.

“That,” says Eddie, after a moment, “sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Yeah, that’s why I don’t need it,” says Richie. “I just—I want. I want _you_ , that’s all.” The tremble is back in his voice, that unsure quality rattling the timber of Richie’s voice even over the phone, miles and miles away from LA. It’s easy to hear, now that Eddie’s known Richie so well and so long, that hint of uncertainty that sometimes creeps into his voice, under the cockiness and the cursing and the mile-a-minute jokes. Eddie thinks of what Richie had confessed: _you’re the first person since Ronnie that I’ve told._ It’s a lonely existence, he knows that from experience. “I miss you,” Richie adds, and Eddie wants to reach out over the telephone line and pull Richie into a hug.

“I miss you too,” Eddie says. “Fuck, now I wish I’d come out to New Hampshire with you.”

The moment he lets the words out, he knows they’re the wrong thing to say. Richie goes quiet on the other end of the line, and Eddie’s heart sinks like an anchor thrown into the sea, like a ship tossed over and broken into pieces by a wave too big for it to withstand. He’s said too much. He’s asked for too much, too soon. What had he been thinking, saying that, knowing fully well that neither of them can afford to be seen together too much? What if this is where Richie decides Eddie’s too much for him? What if—

“I wish I could,” says Richie, over the phone, so quietly that Eddie almost thinks he’s hallucinating it at first. “I wish I could bring you out here with me, I really do. I just—can’t. There’d be too many questions, it’d turn into a whole fucking thing.”

God, it would, wouldn’t it. Eddie can picture it now, the bombardment of questions he would’ve gotten, like _why did Richie bring one of his actors to the Christmas party?_ And it only takes one careless action for what they’ve managed to build to come crashing down.

“I get it,” he says, as much as it wrenches at his heart to say so. “Maybe next year, huh?”

“Maybe,” says Richie, but he doesn’t sound convinced. “Hey—I gotta go. I—I love you. I’ll be back soon.”

“Love you too,” says Eddie.

\--

The bed rocks.

“God _damn_ , Rich,” Eddie says, breathlessly, as Richie crawls up over him. They’re both naked, sweaty, and very hard, the moonlight lining Richie’s body in silver accents. His glasses are askew on his face, and he’s grinning again, lips swollen from kissing. “You’re a fuckin’ dream.”

“You say the sweetest things, Eddie my love,” says Richie, leaning in to kiss Eddie’s lips, then mouth along his jawline. His hand drifts to Eddie’s cock, thumb swiping over the head of it, and Eddie moans, digging his fingers into Richie’s back. “Look at _you_ , Jesus, how’d we get this lucky, huh?”

“No fucking idea,” Eddie pants. “Fucking— _ohhh shit_ do that again—”

Richie’s hand glides over Eddie’s dick, his smile as he kisses Eddie’s neck turning deliciously wicked. “You like that?” he whispers in Eddie’s ear, voice low and husky. “Got more where that came from,” he adds, and Eddie’s hips jackknife up—

—into thin air, as Eddie comes out of sleep, blinking sleepily in the basement’s light on Christmas Day. He props himself up onto his elbows with a yawn that cracks his jaw, rubbing at his eyes, then looks down at the tent that’s been pitched in his boxer briefs, the stain in them.

“Shit,” he mutters. An image of Richie, grinning wickedly in the moonlight, swims back up from the now-fading memory of his dream, and he groans and flops back onto his bed. Jesus _Christ_ , this never happened when he was _married_.

 _Because you were gay even then,_ his hindbrain reminds him, _and now you know what Richie Tozier’s mouth tastes like._

Like any other human mouth, yeah, but also like—coffee, and candy, and burgers. Idly, Eddie wonders if he tastes the same way in the mornings, when he’s freshly woken up. Morning breath, probably. God, it’s so gross just thinking about it, but Eddie’s already tight boxer briefs get even tighter when he really thinks about it: Richie, sleep-soft and slow to wake, fumbling for his glasses as Eddie kisses him.

He’d pin Richie down, Eddie’s sure, his hand slipping into his boxers. Get right on top of him and kiss him slow and sweet, hand pressing into Richie’s shoulders. They wouldn’t properly fuck so early in the morning, ‘cause they’re too old to fuck each other senseless first thing, but Richie would kiss him back, nibble at his lower lip, his big hand on Eddie’s ass. God, those _hands_ of his. Calloused from writing and warm, nails blunt, they’d feel so nice palming Eddie’s ass.

Eddie shuts his eyes and turns over, hand palming over his dick, and thinks about Richie’s hand instead. Man’s a tease, he’d do it slow, and Eddie would hiss _you fucking asshole get me off faster,_ and Richie would laugh. Still does it slow even when Eddie pushes forward faster, curses him out, then he’d pull him down for a kiss again and _give_ it to him, and all the while Eddie would feel Richie’s cock pressing into his thigh, wanting, leaking with it. 

No rush, though, no real rush. They wouldn’t have anywhere to be. They would just need to be here in this bed, Richie’s hand on Eddie’s cock, speeding up the pace and whispering sweet filthy nothings in his ear until—

Eddie moans Richie’s name as he comes, spilling all over his own hand and the sheets.

So. That’s.

 _Fuck_ , that’s something.

\--

**eduardo**

_**Today** 10:00 AM_

merry christmas!!

dad and great-uncle herb have been arguing for an hour about gramma’s famous baked beans. it’s torture listening to them.

how are you?

just fine, Rich.  
I’m eating by myself at that Indian place you showed me and it’s so good I’m pissed that you didn’t introduce me to it sooner.  
also Veronica called me from Arcata, she wants you to “turn your fucking phone on so I can greet you dipshit”.  
her words not mine.

awww she says the sweetest things.

also i need you to see this.

[eddiecat.jpeg]

look at my nephew’s cat! he looks like you!

that  
does NOT  
look like me.

no eyebrows but he pulls the muppet face off so so well.

if I look like a muppet you’re the one kissing a muppet face here, so really, who’s the loser here?

nobody!

i get to kiss you and you get to listen to me trying out jokes until they sound juuust right.

so really we’re all winners here.

fair.  
hey so.  
been thinking about you.

oh?

only good things i hope.

oh, they’re very good things.

it’s funny.

see, i’ve been thinking about you too.

very good things before you ask ;).

what kind of things?

the way you kiss like it’s a goddamn contest and like fuck are you going to lose.

it’s adorable and i love it.

I thought about how you’d probably look in the morning  
like a hot fuckin’ mess with bedhead and morning breath and shit, and then I thought  
god damn, I want to get my mouth and hands on that.

and other bits?

yes  
and other bits.

i thought about how you’d look in my bed all spread out and shit.

your mouth runs a mile a minute when you get worked up, i wonder if it does the same when you also get ;) worked up ;).

you could just use quotation marks, Rich, I already know exactly what you mean.  
wonder if you’ll shut up for once if I put your mouth to work on me.

is that a challenge?

if you want it to be.

\--

Richie comes back the day after Christmas, just as night is starting to fall over LA. He looks—a little more refreshed than he had been when he left, hair a rumpled mess, probably from sleeping on the plane. Eddie catches sight of him and immediately wants to bury his hands in Richie’s hair and reel him in for a kiss, the public be damned.

But he doesn’t. Instead he waves a hand and calls, “Hey, you’re the wrong Tozier, where’s your mom?”

“Safe in Hawaii, away from your wandering hands, dickhead!” Richie calls back, and all but sprints to Eddie. “And I got some news for you, buddy—all this time, it was _me_ you were messaging.”

“Oh, my _god_ ,” says Eddie, playing along and giving his best performance of someone who’s just been told they’ve been catfished. “No. _No._ ”

“Search your heart,” Richie intones, in a deep voice reminiscent of Darth Vader, “you know it to be true.”

Eddie smacks his shoulder with the back of his hand, pulling a snort of laughter out of Richie. “Quit crossing the streams like that,” he says. “Come on, my car’s in the parking lot. Let me—”

“Yeah, here,” says Richie, giving Eddie his duffel bag and pulling his suitcase along behind him as they start walking. His hand brushes, briefly, against Eddie’s, just the lightest touch of his knuckles over the backs of Eddie’s fingers. Eddie looks resolutely ahead of him, because they’re in public, and there are too many people here who would recognize him, and this thing between them has to stay a secret because, goddammit, he’s seen what happens to relationships in Hollywood. He’s _been_ in that position before. If he loses Richie—

Well, he doesn’t want to lose him.

But he steps closer, bumping his shoulder against Richie’s. And if he lets his hand brush against Richie’s when they’re loading Richie’s shit into the trunk of his car, hey, it’s not like anyone’s going to notice.

Right after he starts the engine, but before he starts driving, Eddie says, “So, uh—your place or mine?”

“What?” says Richie, looking up from where he’s untangling the cord for his overpriced iPhone.

“Your place or mine?” Eddie repeats. When Richie still blinks at him, he elaborates, “There’s advantages and disadvantages to both. Yours is nearer _and_ there’s a bodega like, a block away with condoms and lube, but there’s a lot more neighbors to worry about. Mine has a back door we can sneak through and neighbors who don’t give a shit, and the bed is made out of memory foam, so it’s, y’know, better on the back, but the neighborhood’s a hot spot for paps.”

“You have a spreadsheet,” says Richie. “Don’t you?”

God damn it, the man knows him too well already. “I’ve seen you in the writers’ room,” Eddie says, in an attempt to recover, “your spreadsheets are more extensive than mine are.”

“Touché, Spaghetti Man,” says Richie, plugging his phone in now and scrolling through his playlist. “How about my place? As tempting as your memory foam mattress sounds, I _miss_ sleeping in my own bed.”

“Oh, good,” sighs Eddie, “because I didn’t want to have to deal with LA traffic any longer than I had to.” He pulls out of the parking slot, as Marvin Gaye’s voice croons, _I’ve been really trying, baby, trying to hold back this feeling for so long…_

Richie’s hand rests on Eddie’s thigh. Eddie sucks in a breath when he feels the gentle weight of Richie’s hand on his leg, and somehow manages not to drive them right into a stop sign. Which really, if you think about it, is a sign of how good his self-control is. They can totally make it to Richie’s apartment without jumping each other in the elevator. Definitely.

\--

The second the elevator doors shut, Eddie’s mouth is on Richie’s and Richie’s hands are on Eddie’s ass, so self-control is a fucking loss almost immediately.

“God, I missed your mouth,” Eddie says, in between kisses.

“I missed your spirit,” says Richie, dropping his voice to sound more like Keanu Reeves. Eddie rolls his eyes ceiling-ward, but his mouth is doing that thing where it presses into a line like it can somehow seal Eddie’s laughter up inside it. So, hey, Richie is doing great. “I missed your heart,” he continues, and is rewarded with a helpless chuckle and a head shake.

“I missed your tongue,” says Eddie, and before Richie can continue with his Keanu Reeves impression, pulls him down for another searing kiss. With _tongue_. In the back of his mind, Marvin Gaye sings, _Let’s get it on, oh, baby._ Richie ought to thank the guy. He will do that by thoroughly fucking Eddie through the mattress. Or getting fucked through the mattress, whichever, he’s easy. So, so easy, for this spitfire in front of him kissing him like they’re underwater and all they can do to keep from drowning is to breathe each other’s air.

He wouldn’t mind drowning like this, he thinks. No, he wouldn’t mind at all.

The elevator door dings as they hit the ground floor, and they jump apart so fast Richie accidentally smacks his head on an elevator wall.

A young woman blinks at them both, a portfolio under her arm. “Hi, Mr. Tozier,” she says, politely, stepping inside. “And, uh—”

“Eds,” says Eddie, quickly.

Richie does not quite manage to suppress the stupidly happy grin on his face, at that. “Hey, Aster,” he says, falling back on the old habit of greeting her. “So how’s art school going?”

“Going,” says Aster. “How’s the writing?”

“Going,” says Richie. He looks up at the ceiling, then at Eddie, who he’s pretty sure is actually vibrating with repressed horniness right now, because god that was too close for comfort. He likes Aster, don’t get him wrong, but _like_ doesn’t mean _trust_.

The elevator door dings. Aster steps out, and says, with a small smile, “Glad you found another friend, Mr. Tozier.”

“I’m glad too,” says Richie, just as the elevator doors close. Then he slumps against a wall and says, “Jesus fucking Christ, that was a close one.”

Eddie leans against the other side and laughs, says, “God, yeah. Too fucking close.” He steps closer, pulls Richie down, and says, “You bumped your head—let me see it.”

“There’s easier ways to ask me to kiss you,” Richie says.

“I’m not asking to kiss you, I just want to make sure you’re not concussed or something,” says Eddie, so Richie bends down and tilts his head so Eddie can feel around with his fingers. “Nothing,” Eddie reports. “You’re all clear.” For good measure, he presses a kiss to the spot where Richie bumped his head.

Richie straightens up, then pulls Eddie in closer again, hands resting on the small of his back. He wants to get close, closer, as close as he possibly can. “I feel cured already,” he murmurs, “thanks, Doctor K.” He leans in, then, to kiss Eddie once more, a soft, sweet, tender press of his lips to Eddie’s.

Because it’s them, and because they’re both apparently really fucking horny, it doesn’t stay soft and sweet for very long. In just about no time, Eddie is pressing him up against the wall and kissing him like he wants to claim him. Richie kisses back, nibbles at Eddie’s lower lip, and oh, boy, they better get to his floor soon ‘cause his pants are getting tighter by the second.

They practically spill out of the elevator still attached to each other by the hand, and Richie pulls Eddie towards his apartment and fumbles with his keys as Eddie presses himself against his back and nips at his neck.

“Eddie, Jesus, gimme a minute—”

“Okay, okay,” Eddie says, stepping back as Richie searches for the right key. He stabs it into the doorknob with more force than strictly necessary, turns, and yanks Eddie inside.

The second the door slams shut, Eddie backs him up against it, and they’re kissing _again_ , hot and wet and needy. His hands are at Richie’s jacket, fumbling for the zipper, and Richie’s trying to unbutton Eddie’s pants without breaking the kiss between them.

Pants and jackets fall to the floor together. They shed the rest of their clothes on their way to the bedroom—Richie’s pants smack into the coffee table, Eddie’s polo shirt hits the couch, Richie’s shoes are abandoned by the doorway to the bedroom, Eddie’s socks fall to the floor near the bedpost. Eddie presses his palm to the bulge in Richie’s boxers and Richie damn near _moans_ , rocking against his hand.

Boxers and boxer briefs go together.

“Holy shit, that’s big,” says Richie, impressed, after Eddie falls back onto the bed.

“What, seriously?” Eddie says, propping himself up on his elbows and looking down at their now exposed cocks. His dick is very nice and also bigger than Richie was expecting, and Richie kind of really wants that in his mouth right now. “Wow, thanks. Yours is about as big as I thought it would be, considering you’re…” He pauses, then gestures to Richie, helplessly. “You’re big in general,” he says. “Fucking—broad and shit, what the fuck?”

Richie can’t help but preen at that. “I drank a lot of milk as a kid,” he says. Then he pauses. “Hold on a second, I think I have some condoms in the bedside drawer.”

“I’m clean,” Eddie says. “I got a check-up like—two weeks ago. You?”

Richie, midway through clambering off the bed to fumble around the drawers for the condoms, stops and blinks at him. “I get checked up like clockwork,” he says, slowly, “plus I haven’t had sex since I realized I was in love with you.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, then says, “Well, what’re you waiting for, then?”

“Let me just get the lube,” says Richie.

\--

So here’s the thing about having a finger in his ass: at first, it just feels weird. There is something in his ass that’s wriggling around and his body is telling him shouldn’t be there. He frowns at Richie and says, “I really don’t see what’s so special about this, honestly. It’s like a fuckin’ prostate exam.”

“You have a medical kink or something?” Richie asks, his fingers moving inside of Eddie, getting him nice and loose. “Hey, don’t clench up on me, man.”

“You have fingers in my ass, what the fuck am I supposed to _oh my fucking god Richie._ ”

Richie grins, beatifically, and crooks his fingers again. This time they brush over that spot inside of him that feels _just right_ , and Eddie moans, embarrassingly. “Bet your doctor doesn’t do _that_ ,” he says.

“No he doesn’t,” says Eddie, “and if you don’t do it again I will _actually kill you_ , fucking try m _ohhhhh my god_.”

“Judging from that, I think that’s good enough for me to live,” Richie casually says, like he’s not fucking taking Eddie apart with his _fingers_ alone. Eddie rocks back on his fingers and grabs at his back, and for revenge, bites at Richie’s collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “ _Oh,_ ” says Richie, sounding strangled. Hm. So he likes getting marked up.

And then Richie adds in another lube-slicked finger, and Eddie fucking _moans_. “Fucking _touch me_ ,” he demands.

“I’m touching you,” says Richie, “I am, as we speak, touching the inside of your ass with my fingers,” and he demonstrates by rocking his fingers in and out of Eddie’s ass.

“You know what I fucking mean, _Richie_ ,” Eddie hisses. For good measure, he rocks his hips upward, impatient, trying to get Richie to please for the love of fucking god _touch his cock_.

“Eddie baby,” says Richie, blinking innocently at Eddie, like his dick isn’t also dripping precome on Eddie’s thigh and also the sheets, “that’s for _later_.”

“I am going to kick your fucking ass,” Eddie informs him. Then he rocks back onto Richie’s fingers with a moan. “God fucking damn you, you _shit_ ,” he says. “Don’t you stop, don’t you stop, don’t you fucking _stop_ —”

“I’d welcome the asskicking,” Richie gravely says, nipping at Eddie’s ear. Eddie shudders under his touch, clutches at Richie’s back as Richie’s fingers slip out of him. “Eddie—”

“If you don’t put either your fingers or your dick inside me in thirty seconds I’m gonna kick you out of your own bed and get myself off,” Eddie informs him.

“You’re fucking bossy for someone who’s getting fucked,” says Richie, in wonderment, but he’s the one leaning back to help Eddie arrange himself and get on his stomach so really, who’s the winner here. “Okay, okay. Tell me if you’re not comfortable, okay?”

“You think that’s gonna be a fucking problem?” Eddie asks, incredulous, looking back at him. “Me, not telling you I’m uncomfortable? We’ve known each other _how long_?”

“Okay,” says Richie, with a laugh, “true, but I just wanted you to know.” He leans down to press a kiss to the back of Eddie’s knee, which is ridiculous as hell and also incidentally so romantic that Eddie’s heart rate kicks up a notch. He turns his head into a pillow and makes a strangled noise into the fluff. His cock, so far neglected, is making contact with the fabric of the sheets beneath him and somehow, that’s turning him on even more. God, these things are going to be filthy when they’re done here.

Then Richie’s hands are on his thighs pulling him up on all fours and Richie’s cock slides into his ass, slowly, wonderfully, and Eddie’s brain immediately just shuts the fuck down. “ _Jesus fucking Christ,_ ” he whispers.

“Careful, I might get jealous,” says Richie, sounding a little on the edge of also losing it. He can’t get his dick in all at once, so he has to pull in and out and in and out, and each time Eddie cannot fucking help but let out embarrassing moans and pleas and shit and a couple more blasphemies to boot. The discomfort is still there, because it’s a _dick_ in his _ass_ , but Eddie finds himself rocking back on every other thrust, begging for more.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eddie moans, although with the way Richie’s fucking him it comes out with about three syllables, _fu-hu-huck_. “Fucking—Richie, _please_ —”

“I gotcha, I gotcha,” Richie says, patting Eddie’s thigh, and then his hand slides over Eddie’s cock and Eddie’s breath hitches in his throat, even more when Richie finally bottoms out inside him. “Holy _fuck_ ,” says Richie.

“Sure fuckin’ feels holy,” Eddie manages to say, dropping his head down into the pillows. God, this feels like heaven. Probably. He feels pretty goddamn full, all right, already utterly wrecked, heat pooling in his groin and balls drawn up tight. He’s pretty sure he could smash a table with his dick, that’s how hard he feels right now.

Richie leans down to press a kiss to his shoulder, says, “Does this mean we’re starting a new gay religion?”

“You would suck as a priest,” Eddie says, breathless with how full he feels, how _good_. “You’d swear in the homilies and they’d have to kick you out.”

“No, it’d be our thing,” says Richie, which, hey, sounds like a good idea to Eddie’s sex-giddy brain. “Swearing’s allowed in the homilies. Sex is allowed, fuck chastity unless that’s your kink.”

“I mean,” says Eddie, with as much of his brain as he can muster, with Richie moving and fucking him, “there’s orgasm denial.”

Richie laughs, just then, and that sets Eddie off laughing too. “Oh my _god_ ,” says Richie, through the giggling, “you _have_ been doing research—is it, _ah_ , in your spreadsheet? Your sexy sexy spreadsheet?”

“Fuckin’ show _you_ a sexy spreadsheet,” Eddie says. The last word turns into a moan, as Richie rocks his hips into him and pumps his hand up and down Eddie’s cock and _oh god_ , that feels so fucking good that Eddie can feel it in the back of his throat. Feels so fucking good that for a couple of minutes all the noises that come out of his mouth are shocked little gasps of _ah, ah, ah_.

This is—holy _fuck_ is right. Eddie hasn’t ever had sex like this before, has only ever treated it as something to get over as soon as possible. But hey, it turns out, that’s only because he’s been having sex with the wrong gender, because _good fucking god_ , every time Richie thrusts into him, digs his fingers into Eddie’s skin, strokes over his aching leaking cock, is a goddamn revelation.

Of course he tries to meet him halfway, rolls his hips and clenches his ass up a bit to make Richie feel just as good, but honestly between the two of them Eddie’s getting off easy here. Next time he ought to show Richie a good time.

Speaking of getting off—

“Fuck,” Eddie hisses, “Richie, think ‘m’close—”

“I gotcha,” says Richie, the hand he’s not stroking Eddie’s dick with pressing into Eddie’s hip. “I’ve always got you, come for me, Eddie, you’re doing so _good_ —”

When Eddie comes, he thinks he actually sees stars. His brain definitely goes a little fuzzy. Richie comes a few moments later, fucking him hard and fast, and slumps over him right afterwards. The two of them go down very fast into the sheets, and Eddie manages to strangle the horrified groan in his throat when he realizes that, oh, yeah, there’s a rapidly expanding wet spot underneath them.

Richie slips out of him after a moment, then says, “Was that—You okay?”

“Fuck, I think that was the best sex I ever had,” says Eddie, still a little dazed from the orgasm. Jesus. They could feel like that? He never knew. Even jerking off to gay porn had been a little unsatisfying, but holy shit, this is incredible. What the fuck took him so long?

“Oh, shit, I’ve set your expectations too high,” says Richie.

Eddie leans over to smack his shoulder. His hand, instead, lands square on Richie’s cheek. “You did great, Rich,” he says. “Don’t worry about my expectations.”

“Oh,” says Richie. “Uh. Thanks.”

“But I’m not going to sleep covered in jizz and sweat,” says Eddie, “so—you, shower. I’ll change the bedsheets.” He nudges at Richie’s shoulder none too gently, and Richie huffs out a laugh, slips out of bed. “Go,” says Eddie, and Richie goes.

\--

When Eddie wakes up the next day, Richie isn’t in bed beside him. That’s—worrying, and he spends a couple of minutes working himself into a panic over it before his eyes land on a handwritten note on the bedside drawer, in Richie’s handwriting.

_Went out for Mickey D’s, be back soon! Coffee is on the table. Love, Richie._

So Eddie picks up his clothes and trudges to the kitchen where, sure enough, a cup of coffee is already waiting for him. It’s a latte with Richie’s best attempt at foam art decorating the surface, and while it’s no Casilda latte, it’s still damn good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2 of Richie and Eddie Before Derry coming soon!
> 
> ALSO, bc apparently I haven’t been public enough about this and I have had a really bad day: trans women are women and trans men are men and non-binary people are whatever the hell they want to be bc gender is a social construct, and if you believe otherwise, this fic is not for you and I personally hate you and everything you stand for. I don’t want your patronage.


	7. 2016 - I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2 beta'd by Bridge from Discord! thanks Bridge.

_I’ve been sleeping so long in a twenty-year dark night  
Now I’m wide awake  
And now I see daylight  
I only see daylight._  
\- “Daylight”, Taylor Swift

_Tall, tall, tall, tall, tall man_

_you bend so as not to dent the firmament.  
You’re made of elements I’ve never tasted._  
\- Rebecca Lindenberg, “Which, If I Never Thought To Mention It Before, I Now Feel Compelled To Address”, _Love, an Index_

_No good friends. No bad friends. Only people you want, need to be with; people who build their houses in your heart._  
\- Stephen King, _It_

**EXCLUSIVE: Eddie Kaspbrak Leads _Cold Light Of Day_ Cast**  
 _by Josie Montgomery_

Tommy Lane’s independently-made true-crime thriller _In The Cold Light of Day_ , based off famed true-crime writer Michael Hanlon’s bestselling book of the same name, has just announced its cast.

Eddie Kaspbrak ( _Misery’s Lover_ , _The Affair_ , the upcoming _Night Shift_ ) leads the cast in the role of police officer Bryan Haddock, described in the book as “a sensitive soul who nevertheless had a strong sense of justice, who wanted nothing more than to grant at least some closure to those who had lost so much.” Also cast in main and supporting roles are Heather McNamara ( _Ladies’ Night_ , _A Bag of Hammers_ ), Ewan McGregor ( _Star Wars_ , _Salmon Fishing in the Yemen_ ) and Jacob Tremblay ( _Room_ ).

Based off Hanlon’s _New York Times_ bestseller, _In The Cold Light of Day_ focuses on the murder case of Bradley Trevor, whose remains were found buried far from his hometown two years after his death. The movie examines the aftermath of his disappearance and the discovery of his body, and explores the investigation into one of the more gruesome unsolved crimes committed in recent years.

\--

“It’s pretty heavy shit, I’m not gonna lie,” says Eddie, the script for his new movie tucked under his arm as he and Richie walk along a sidewalk in LA, ice cream cones in their hands. Christmas is over, and the New Year is fast approaching them like a runaway train. “Like, I read the book when Tommy told me I got the role. It was just—It was fucking terrible, what happened to that kid. Someone tortured him until he died, and his family’s gonna have to live with the knowledge that their kid died that way for the rest of their lives. Not to mention Haddock’s _still_ investigating it.”

“But you’re excited for the role,” says Richie, licking at his ice cream.

“Fuck yeah,” says Eddie. “Lot of meat to the character for me to sink into, and the script’s _great_. The original writer, Mike Hanlon, he helped write the screenplay and it’s fucking fantastic.”

“I’m proud of you, Eds,” says Richie, sincerely. “Whaddaya think, is this one going to Sundance? Or Cannes?”

“God, you know what, I have no idea just yet,” says Eddie, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Sundance would be great, though, I’ve been there once before and it was a pretty good time. Lots of quality movies.”

“Of fucking course there would be, it’s Sundance,” says Richie, “they love indie shit there.” He bumps against Eddie’s side, says, “You going anywhere?”

“Location shoot in Atlanta in two days for two or three weeks, then two weeks of studio shoots after that,” says Eddie. “You’ve got shit to do for _Night Shift_ , right?”

“Yeah, I gotta break the story for the second season,” says Richie. “Netflix seems to like us, so we’re being optimistic about our chances of being renewed. We’re meeting up next week to figure out what we’re gonna do.”

“I better not get killed off,” says Eddie.

“God, no,” says Richie. For a moment, he’s possessed by the desire to lean in and kiss Eddie’s cheek, but—there are too many people around, too many who could see them, see _him_ , and even now Richie still can’t help but think that if someone sees him, they’ll come after him somehow. “You’re too hot and sexy to kill off. You’re the main draw, baby.”

Eddie rolls his eyes upward. “You and the pet names,” he says. “Hey, uh—do you wanna drop by Atlanta for the new year? Like, at some point.”

Richie blinks, and before he knows it, he’s mentally reviewing his schedule for the next five weeks. They’re ramping up the promotion for _Night Shift_ as the release date approaches, and it’ll be a pain in the ass to have to work remotely. But it would be possible to work remotely. Anyway, it’ll just be for the new year, yeah? Doable.

“Definitely,” says Richie. “Yeah, I’d love to drop in on you for the New Year, Eds. Just—”

“No one’s gonna know what you’re really there for,” says Eddie, which goes a long way towards reassuring his nerves. “So far as they know, we’re just friends, and I told Tommy you like exploring new places. They’ll just assume you wanted to explore a new place.”

“Yeah,” says Richie, feeling—strangely hollowed out, inside. “Friends.” Which they are. Which they were before (great, fantastic) sex and feelings entered into this mess. “Hey,” he says, changing tack, “you know who lives in Atlanta?”

“Who?” Eddie asks, playing along.

“The guy who narrates all those bird documentaries,” says Richie. “Stanley something, I dunno what his name is.”

“Uris?” Eddie says.

Richie snaps his fingers, says, “Yeah, him! That’s the guy. Think we’ll run into him?”

“Atlanta’s a big place, man,” says Eddie. “Kinda doubt it.”

They finish off their ice cream, then get in Richie’s car together and drive somewhere secluded and _private_ , hands linked over the center console. There’s a rarely-used road to the right of Blue Heights Drive with a _killer_ view of the city, much better than Mulholland Drive and much less full of cops on the lookout for frisky teens, so Richie takes them there and parks the car to the side. He’s just stopped the car when Eddie seizes his face and kisses him hard, and what can he do but tilt the chair back and kiss him.

Afterwards, in the backseat, Eddie says, “Fuck, we shoulda bought a fucking blanket or something.”

Richie snorts out a laugh. “My backseat’s seen way worse than some jizz,” he says. “And it’s seen a lot of it.”

Eddie groans, plants his face in Richie’s bare chest, and says, “Fucking hell, Rich, that’s just disgusting. Don’t you care for the upholstery? Do you _know_ what stray liquids could do to leather?”

“No, hey, don’t worry about it,” says Richie, shifting around to better cuddle Eddie, to press a kiss to his sweaty scalp. “I’ve changed the upholstery a couple times over the years. This is brand new.”

“That’s barely any better,” Eddie grumbles, but he curls closer to Richie. “I can’t believe we fucked in the back of your car. I mean, what are we? Teenagers? My back is gonna kill me for this.”

“My back’s gonna kill me worse,” says Richie. “And my ass.”

Eddie flushes, and says, “God, are you okay?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Richie says, smoothing Eddie’s sweat-damp hair down. “Better than, even. Just kinda sore, and definitely not gonna be able to drive back soon.” Just for the hell of it, he presses a few kisses to Eddie’s hairline. “Tell me a little more about your new movie,” he says. “I know it’s about the Bradley Trevor case, but what kinda angle are they going with here?”

“Did you see that Angelina Jolie movie, where she loses her kid and when she gets another kid in his place starts raising hell about it?” Eddie shifts around a little in his arms, like he’s trying to get comfortable. Richie moves a little to accommodate him, as much as he can in this cramped backseat. “Lane’s going for a mood like that. He wants to show the case’s strain on the family and on Haddock, how the lack of closure over the time he was missing fucked them all up. One kid goes missing, and it sends shockwaves through the community, and that’s what got him all interested in the case.”

“I saw that movie,” says Richie. “I liked it— _damn_ good shit, but I dunno, it just felt like it hit a little too close to home.” He sighs. “I don’t even know what it was hitting, thanks to the whole childhood amnesia thing.”

“Yeah, it fucking sucks,” says Eddie. “Don’t you want to know?”

This again. Richie shakes his head. “Fuck no,” he says. “I told you already, if my subconscious doesn’t wanna dig it up, maybe it’s best left buried.”

“What if it comes back to bite you on the ass ‘cause you weren’t prepared enough?” Eddie argues. “How long do you think it’s gonna stay buried?”

“If it stayed buried this long,” says Richie, flatly, hoping his tone brooks no more arguments, “then it’s not going fucking anywhere.”

Eddie frowns at him, and it’s serious, this one. It’s the one he busts out when he _wants_ Richie to really listen to him. “What about your dreams?” he says. “Our dreams. You don’t think it’s got something to do with it?”

“Eddie, why the hell are you dwelling on this?” Richie asks.

“Why aren’t you curious or even the least bit concerned about it?” Eddie shoots back.

“I don’t know, ‘cause I just don’t fucking worry about it like a dog with a bone,” says Richie. “It’s done! It happened! Never mind it now, let’s just—move on forward, don’t look back.” That’s how Richie’s lived his life, never looking back, because if he does, god knows what he’ll find behind him.

“I’m not— _worrying_ about it,” says Eddie, sitting up now and glaring down at him. “I just feel like there’s something we’re missing here and that it’s buried deep in our heads and, I don’t know, maybe the answer’s there.”

“Maybe it’s in yours,” says Richie.

Eddie goes still. “You think it’s just in my head?” he asks, and his voice—cracks. Just enough to show the pain underneath, at the thought that Richie of all people wouldn’t believe him. And just like that, whatever frustration Richie feels towards him about this subject evaporates.

Richie sighs, then sits up. “No,” he says. “I think—Eddie, you’re assuming it’s all linked. Maybe it isn’t.” He’s sure it isn’t, anyway. God, he hopes it isn’t. “Maybe your thing is different from my thing, it just has parallels. I’ll help you dig up yours, but I’m not touching mine with a ten-foot pole. You couldn’t pay me enough to do that.” That’s a good enough compromise, right?

Eddie sighs, so yeah, it’s a good compromise. “Fine,” he says. “I want it on the record I think it’d be good for you, but if you don’t wanna even look, then—I get it, I guess.” _Not really, but I don’t wanna argue,_ goes unsaid, but Richie can hear it anyway, underneath his voice. Well, that’s good enough for him, right now. Maybe they’ll have a bigger discussion about this, and about their relationship, but—damn it, Richie doesn’t want to have it now. He wants to enjoy this honeymoon period for as long as possible, if he can. “I haven’t told you who else is in Atlanta.”

“Who?” Richie asks.

Eddie’s lips purse into a thin line. “One of my aunts,” he says.

“The famed Aunt Debra?” Richie asks.

“Yeah, her,” says Eddie. “She and my mom were—close. She probably has some of the things my mom left when she died.”

“You don’t?” Richie asks.

Eddie’s laugh is harsh, tired, and heartbreakingly _sad_. “God, no,” he says. “She cut me out of her will, she told me she would the last time we talked. I think she thought I’d come crawling back to her, and I just—told her to do it.” He scrubs a hand over his now-watery eyes, and says, “I mean, I know that—that was really the best thing I could do for me, but sometimes I think, god, I should’ve been there. I should’ve at least been at her bedside when she fucking _died_ , and Aunt Debra’s gonna say as much, too.”

“Hey,” says Richie, catching Eddie’s hand. Not for the first time, a surge of anger boils in his chest, because what the _fuck_ was wrong with Sonia Kaspbrak, that she’d make her son feel this way? What the _hell_ kind of bullshit did she do to Eddie that even now the damage still shows? “Eddie, _hey_. Fuck her, okay?”

Eddie blinks at him. “What?”

“ _Fuck_ that,” Richie says. “She fucked you up and you got away from her anyway. So she died alone, and yeah, it sucks that she did. But you know what? It was her own fucking fault.” He jabs Eddie’s shoulder, and says, “She didn’t deserve you, okay?”

“She was my _mom_ ,” says Eddie.

“Moms shouldn’t fuck you up like that,” says Richie. “Mine wasn’t perfect,” in fact Maggie and Wentworth Tozier tended to be too busy with work to hang with little old Richie, “but she didn’t tell me I had allergies when I fucking _didn’t_.”

“Yeah, I know she shouldn’t have and I _know_ she was—abusive, and controlling, and all that,” says Eddie, and ah, fuck, there’s real heat in his voice now, “but she was my _mom_ , Richie. No matter what was between us, no matter what she did, I still loved her. Sometimes I wish I fucking didn’t, but wishing doesn’t change it.” He sighs, then says, “I don’t know how the fuck to get you to understand.”

Richie doesn’t know if he _can_. Yeah, he and the rest of his family can be pretty distant from each other, and he’s never really come out to them. But when his mom says she loves him, she means it, and maybe they’ve never really understood each other, but she laughs at his jokes, really laughs, crow’s feet at her eyes crinkling with delight. Sometimes she’s asked him for more than he can really give, but she understands when he can’t. She’s never been more manipulative to him than dangling the prospect of four dollars in front of him in exchange for doing the dishes.

Eddie’s mom, on the other hand—

“You’re right,” says Richie. “I don’t. I don’t get why she’d do that to you. I get that she’s still important to you, though, and—fuck, man, I don’t know why.”

“I wish I had a clear answer why too,” says Eddie. “But she must’ve kept something. Pictures of when I was a kid, I know, I still have one photo album of hers, but it was after we moved away from Maine. Aunt Debra’s probably got the rest, though, and I’m going to have to fight her for it, and it’s just going to be a huge fucking mess.”

“I’ll be in your corner,” says Richie. “Hell, if push comes to shove, I’ll distract her and you steal the shit you need.”

“What, seriously?”

“Well, yeah, I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.” Richie reaches over to take Eddie’s hand, and squeeze it tight.

“You say a lot of shit you don’t mean,” says Eddie, but he shifts his hand a little so he can squeeze right back. So Richie doesn’t take it to heart. “But—yeah. Thanks, Rich.”

\--

_You’ve reached Richie Tozier. Leave a message after the beep and I’ll be sure to give you some lovin’ when I get back._

_BEEP._

“Hey, Rich? It’s Veronica. If you’re really hell-bent on celebrating the New Year in Atlanta, we should meet up on the second. I’ll take you to this restaurant I know, it’ll be fun and you can bounce ideas for _Night Shift_ off me in person, instead of through texts at 2 AM or through a Skype screen. Seriously, man, get some sleep! And yeah, don’t worry about the meeting, okay? You can show up via Skype, most of us probably will. We’re still shaking off our Christmas and New Year hangovers. See you ‘round, Rich.”

_BEEP._

\--

**flythefalcon**  
someone snapped pics of eddie kaspbrak in atlanta!!! and apparently richie tozier followed him there?

[image descriptions: three pictures of Eddie Kaspbrak in walking right beside Richie Tozier. Both men are wearing sunglasses and jackets, although Eddie is wearing a newsboy cap and Richie’s sunglasses are tacky, kitschy 2016 sunglasses.]

**skymurdock**  
Is it just me or are they a little close for an actor and a writer

\--

Richie meets Mike Hanlon the day after New Year’s, when Eddie heads to the set and Richie, with nothing to do until he meets Veronica for dinner, tags along with him. They haven’t tried looking up Aunt Debra yet, and Richie gets this feeling that Eddie is putting it off as long as possible, trying to get the courage up first. He doesn’t blame him. He likes his immediate family just fine, but there are aunts and uncles on the periphery that he avoids like the plague whenever he can help it. And here Eddie is in the same city as her, once more.

So Eddie takes Richie to the location they’re shooting at, a stretch of road on the outskirts of town that’s set up to look like a crime scene. There’s already a frighteningly realistic-looking decayed corpse being fussed over, and they’re setting up some of the lighting now, not that they need much of it. All-natural light, baby.

Richie stops, then whistles. “God _damn_ ,” he says. “That looks horrifyingly real.”

Eddie grimaces. “Yeah, from what I hear they based it off the actual crime scene photos,” he says. He looks around, then says, “I gotta get in costume—you okay with staying here for a little while?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” says Richie, making a shooing gesture towards where the crew’s set up the wardrobe tent. “Go, I’ll keep myself entertained.”

“You make that sound so ominous,” says Eddie. He pauses for a moment, as if hesitating, his fingers twitching as though he wants to reach out to Richie and squeeze his hand, then fixes a smile on his face. “See you later,” he says, and walks off.

Richie bites his lip, and shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling something yawn open in the pit of his stomach. He tries very hard not to look at the small fake corpse being fussed over, because—well, it’s disturbing. Even when he knows it’s fake, that the actual kid is probably just chilling in his trailer playing video games, it’s still _profoundly_ disturbing to see the corpse of a child.

He spots Mike from a distance, at first. The guy’s tall, and for a moment Richie is kind of surprised to see him in a plain white shirt and a navy blue blazer, because—because—

Richie shakes his head, and the thought slips away as fast as it came. Mike Hanlon looks basically the same as the picture above his profile on the book jacket: dark skin, hair cropped close, some worry lines on his face, no doubt from reading and writing so much true crime. But if Richie didn’t know any better, he’d say the guy didn’t _look_ like a true crime writer. He’d kind of imagined somebody like those girls in _My Favorite Murder_ , not someone who looks like he should be selling cologne from atop a horse.

Then Mike turns to look at him, and his eyes go wide. He starts walking towards Richie, weaving away from obstacles with the grace and practice of someone who’s been on quite a few sets before, and as soon as he’s closed the distance between them says, “You’re Richie Tozier? Eddie’s friend?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Richie.

“Oh, great,” says Mike, a spark in his eye. “He mentioned you before, he said you’ve done a lot of research into the weirder crimes for your show. _Night Shift_ , wasn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Richie. “Why?”

“Ever heard of a town called Derry?” Mike asks, and Richie frowns.

“I—don’t think so,” he says, slowly, but even then he knows he’s lying. Something about the town name tickles at his memory. Something about it is—familiar, somehow, but in that same way his nightmares are familiar: with a sense of wrongness permeating them. That same sense of wrongness rings from this one word alone. “Why?” he asks.

“It’s— _weird_ ,” says Mike. “That’s the best explanation I can come up with. Six times the national average for disappearances but it never even makes the seven o’clock news.” He raises his impressive eyebrows at Richie. “Don’t you think that’s weird?” he urges.

“Yeah?” Richie manages. “Is—Are you trying to suggest I use it in the next season, ‘cause I’m not even sure if there’s gonna be one yet.”

“No, no,” says Mike. “I—god, I’m sorry, I’m getting us off on the wrong foot, aren’t I.” He puts his hand out and says, “Mike Hanlon. Although I’m sure you already knew that.”

“Richie Tozier,” says Richie, and takes Mike’s hand. For a moment Mike’s hand is the most familiar hand in the world, and Richie’s heart speeds up when he touches him. Not in a good way, though. More like, in a way that touches on the thing that Richie is _sure_ should stay well and truly buried in the deepest levels of his subconscious. “You can’t do worse than me with your mom.”

Mike raises an eyebrow, as if he can see the punchline coming a million miles away already. “Why, what happened?” he asks, anyway.

“I tripped and fell mouth-first onto her pussy,” is what comes out of Richie’s mouth.

“Oh, yeah,” says Mike, after a moment spent pinching the bridge of his nose, “he mentioned you’d say something like that.”

Richie kind of wants the ground to swallow him up, right about now, because some part of him likes Mike. Not the same way he likes Eddie, his entire world doesn’t narrow down to Mike as though everything else around them is just background noise, but he—shit, he wants Mike to like him. He hasn’t felt this need to be liked since fucking forever.

Okay, that’s a lie, he always needs people to like him, but still. Somehow, he feels terrible for the fact that he’s starting off this conversation on such a terrible note. But Jesus Christ, Richie quickly reminds himself, it’s Mike who started it, talking about _murder_.

“He didn’t mention you a whole lot,” Richie says, instead. “Just said you were smart, and talking to you was helpful.”

“I’m not surprised,” says Mike, looking away and to the wardrobe tent. “Beyond his role we didn’t talk a whole lot. He’s pretty serious about it, though—he actually made the first move in talking to Haddock, to get a better sense of his role in the investigation.”

“Yeah,” says Richie, feeling affection bloom warmly in his chest. “He’s always like that, y’know?”

Mike’s eyes slide back to him. “I figured,” he says, after a moment. “You do a lot of research into myths and legends, right?”

Derry again. “Yeah,” says Richie. “But like, just enough so I can make fun of it. Why?”

Mike runs his teeth over his lower lip, and says, “I gotta show you something.”

\--

Mike lives in a trailer, currently, one that’s a lot more homey than some of the trailers Richie’s been in. Snazzy-looking on the outside, too, with racing stripes splitting the top from the bottom and awnings stretching from the top of the windows. “I live in Orlando, usually,” says Mike, pushing the door open and stepping aside to let Richie in. “But I travel a lot, so half the time I’m living out of here.”

And it shows. There are stacks of books all over the place, true crime and crime fiction sharing space with titles like _Haunted America_ and _Ghostland: An American History in Haunted Places_. There’s a mug on the kitchenette counter that Mike beelines towards, squints down at, then puts away somewhere Richie can’t see. The coffee table can barely be seen under the papers, although Mike’s apparently more organized than Richie is.

And the main attraction: a conspiracy corkboard above the couch, full of pictures and Post-Its all linked together with a variety of colored strings.

“Wow,” says Richie. “This is the nerdiest thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen the original animated _Star Trek_.”

“Thank you,” says Mike, wryly, “for not telling me it looks like a serial killer board.”

“I mean,” says Richie, “it _does_. But also it’s just—so fucking nerdy, man.” He makes a slow circuit of the living room, a finger tracing over the embossed letters of books’ spines. “Lots of paranormal shit here,” he says, out loud.

“Yeah, I like to read about the supernatural on the side,” says Mike.

“You think it’s real?” Richie asks, turning now to look at him.

Mike shrugs, having moved from his kitchenette to his living room in the meantime. “Real enough,” he says. “Not all of it is necessarily true, there are a lot of hoaxes out there and even the ones that _sound_ real have too much room for reasonable doubt, but—more room in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, you know.”

If this were anyone else, sounding so convinced of this, Richie would laugh it off and walk away, and never talk to them again. Yeah, he kinda believes in the supernatural, and yeah he kinda sometimes thinks there are less than normal explanations for weird shit, but like. There’s Richie, whose chief interest in the supernatural is mining it for stories, and then there are people who wholeheartedly believe in it, who go ghost-hunting and walk around in abandoned places calling for the ghosts to come after them. Most of the time Richie tries to avoid associating with folks like those, because he’s pretty sure their little excursions are going to end either in disappointment or in someone getting seriously injured.

But Mike—

Something about Mike makes Richie sit up and listen.

“You mentioned Derry,” Richie says, and Mike nods. “I’m guessing there’s something spooky in town, huh?”

“Yeah,” says Mike, then picks up a file. “Too much happens there, man, and it all just flies under the radar.”

“You sure it’s not a government conspiracy?” Richie cracks, with a grin.

Mike huffs out a laugh, and shakes his head. “I’m sure,” he says. “For one thing, the American government isn’t competent enough, even with a competent leader.” Which, yeah, okay, he’s got a point there. And he’s black, so coming from him it hits a little harder, because he’d _know_ , wouldn’t he. The government doesn’t try as hard for minorities. “For another, what I’ve found is too spread out. Here, take a look.”

Richie steps closer to look over Mike’s shoulder, and absently notes that Mike is _so much_ taller than Eddie is. He can’t plant his chin on Mike’s shoulder the way he would to Eddie. For some reason, the thought makes him immeasurably sad. “What am I looking at?” he asks.

“Missing persons reports out of Derry over the past century or so,” says Mike, and sure enough, there are a _lot_ of pictures of missing posters. Row after row of smiling faces look out from black and white posters at Richie, with MISSING stamped under their faces.

“That’s a fucking lot of missing kids,” says Richie, because that’s what they are— _kids_. The oldest age on the posters is eighteen or nineteen, their eyes bright with potential.

“Too many of them,” says Mike. “And here’s the weird part.” He turns the papers over, to show pictures. Innocent pictures, certainly, but for some reason Richie’s heart begins to pound in his chest. “Do you see him?” Mike asks.

“Who?” Richie asks.

Mike points. Richie’s eyes flick to where he looks, but all he can catch is a flash of red hair before his eyes skitter away. “There’s—a person, in some of their last known pictures, that for some reason _no one_ can remember,” he says. “No one I’ve talked to knows who he is, or can even describe him. Some of them don’t even _remember_ much about the town, or even the kids who disappeared. I could buy it from the younger siblings, but from the people who were teenagers? From their own parents? There’s something _off_.”

“And you can?” Richie asks.

“No,” says Mike. “Every time I look, it’s like my eyes just slide right off him. There are details I remember, but I can’t _picture_ him.” He taps the photo with a knuckle, and says, “There is something in this town that doesn’t want people to know what’s going on in it. I don’t know what it is, but I think this mystery man’s got something to do with it.”

“Maybe he’s just fucking ugly,” Richie says, but even then the joke rings hollow to him. It should sound insane. It should sound completely bugfuck crazy, and he should be walking right out of this trailer and staying in Eddie’s hotel room for the rest of his stay in Atlanta. He _should_ , only—

Only he believes Mike. Certainly he doesn’t want to. What Mike’s been telling him shouldn’t make a lick of sense, but somehow Richie believes him. He doesn’t sound crazy, is the thing. He’s not ranting and raving at Richie, just presenting him with the evidence and his conclusions, which, okay, thin fucking line between the two but. Still. Something about Mike—Richie just trusts him, to know what he’s talking about. And that’s really what’s splitting Mike off from the ghost hunters walking through abandoned asylums in search of the supernatural, isn’t it? He _knows_ what he’s talking about.

“Yeah, maybe,” says Mike, smiling, although there’s a tired quality to it. “It isn’t much of a case, I know. Just because a small Maine town is unexpectedly violent doesn’t mean there’s something supernatural at work. It’s just that every single Derry ex-pat I have ever met can’t seem to _remember_ much about the town, or the children who disappeared, and the strangest thing is, not one of them thinks it’s weird.” He pauses, then adds, “If they even remember the town at all. I know a few people who don’t even know what I’m talking about when I mention their hometown. They think they came from somewhere else in Maine; Bangor, mostly.”

“So you think, what, this thing in town has magic amnesia powers?” Richie asks.

“You’re the one who said it, not me,” says Mike, with a shrug. “It’s an unexplained phenomena, this collective amnesia. I figured, collective trauma, probably, but that’s inadequate for just how many people this has affected.” He sighs, then shuts the file. “I don’t have anything truly concrete, though,” he says. “I can’t even see if there’s a pattern to all this.”

“Well,” says Richie. “Maybe it’s a town conspiracy. Maybe there’s a cult. Maybe it’s something in the water.”

“That’s one theory I have,” says Mike. “It’s the one I’m working right now, but mostly on the side, since, y’know.” He nods to the door, to the set outside this trailer. “I actually do have other, more pressing things to do,” he says. “But I figured—Eddie says you’ve done a lot of research for your show.”

“Yeah, but just to mine ‘em for stories,” says Richie. “I’m not _you_ , Mikey. I don’t dig much farther than I have to for the truth.”

“Truth is a matter of perspective, I’ve found,” says Mike. “I have interviewed a _lot_ of people for my books over the years, and what I’ve found out doing those interviews is that truth is really a subjective thing.” He puts the file down. “But this thing’s bigger than I can do alone, and honestly…” He runs his teeth over his lower lip, then sighs. “I found out I’m _from_ Derry, very recently,” he says.

“Seriously?” Richie asks. “Wow. Talk about being close to the story.”

“Too close,” says Mike. “I’ve lost my objectivity. Probably never even had it in the first place.” He sits down on his couch, and says, “So that’s where you come in. Or that’s where I was hoping I could get _someone_ to come in, since whenever I try to tell someone about this, they think I might’ve lost it.” He smiles again, a wry, dark thing. “Frankly, I wonder if they’re not wrong.”

Richie sits next to him, fiddling with his fingers. “I guess I could help,” he says. “If you need an unbiased opinion. I’ve never even heard of Derry in my life before.”

“You and almost everyone else I know,” says Mike. “But—thank you, Richie. For at least hearing me out.”

“ _De nada_ ,” says Richie. “I can’t make any promises I’ll be any good with the research, but if you give me some of your notes and shit I can probably jump off from there.”

“I’ll send you the e-mail,” says Mike, pulling his phone out of his pocket, “I’ve been working on digitizing everything.”

\--

Come dinnertime on the second day of 2016, Richie’s standing in front of a restaurant called Bacchanalia, with Eddie squinting at the doors and the whole—fancy-shmancy theme, going on here. Through the glass, he can see a lot of lightbulbs dangling from the ceiling, and furniture that Eddie is pretty sure costs more than the regular maintenance on his car does.

“ _Wow,_ Ronnie,” says Richie, after a moment. He looks kind of amazed, like he didn’t think they’d be at a restaurant quite _this_ fancy.

“I feel underdressed,” says Eddie, as they push the doors open to the waiting area. “I feel like I shoulda rented a tux or something.” He’d come straight from the set to here, so he’s still wearing his leather jacket-white shirt-clean jeans combo, and surrounded by all the people dressed to impress, he feels exactly like the proverbial sore thumb. He can’t believe he’s thinking this, but he misses In-n-Out already.

Richie tucks his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie, as uncomfortable as Eddie is. “I should’ve rented a completely new wardrobe,” he says, just as the maître d' comes up to them, menu in hand and smile firmly in place.

“Good evening, sirs!” says the guy. “Welcome to Bacchanalia. Did you make a reservation?”

“Oh,” says Eddie, quickly, before Richie can stick his foot in his mouth out of nerves or something, “we got invited here—party of Veronica Sawyer and Heather McNamara?”

“You must be Richie Tozier,” says the host, bowing to—to _Eddie_ of all people.

“Uh,” says Eddie, because—well, this has never happened before. Or, okay, it happened a few times back when he was just starting out, but he’s been famous for _years_ , does this guy really think he’s _Richie_? Good fucking grief.

“That’s me,” says Richie. “Eddie’s just here ‘cause I need someone better-dressed than I am to sneak me in.”

“Oh,” says the maître d', his smile never slipping. Eddie ought to recommend this guy to a casting director, that poker face of his is impeccable. “My apologies, then! Yes, Miss Sawyer and Miss McNamara have been expecting you.” He circles his hand, and says, “Right this way, sirs.”

Eddie follows right behind Richie, feeling even more underdressed as they step into the restaurant proper. Lightbulbs dangle from the ceiling as they pass under them, glowing a soft yellow and casting everything around them in soft, golden light, more than making up for the fading sunlight. Above the tables next to the windows are orb-shaped lamps that give off a similar yellowish glow, illuminating the number of people on dates, on business dinners, on formal occasions that warrant dressing much more nicely than Eddie currently is.

Under one of those lamps is Veronica and Heather’s table. The two women are chatting softly to each other, and Heather has a wine glass in hand, so apparently they’ve gotten started on that without them.

“Oh, Ronnie, you get started on the drinks without me?” Richie asks, fake-hurt.

“Don’t worry, I asked them to spare a Coke for you,” says Veronica, lifting up an empty wine glass. “Eddie! Hey, holy shit. I didn’t know you were coming too.” Her eyes flick to Richie, and she huffs out a breath. “I mean, I guess I should’ve, you’re best friends.”

Best friends. Right. Eddie forces a smile and says, “Yeah, when he mentioned you’d invited him here I wanted to come with, just to check it out.” He tips an imaginary hat to Heather, says, “Hi, Heather.”

“Hi, Eddie!” Heather chirps, sitting up straight as Richie and Eddie slide into the seats across from them. She seems well enough, for someone who not four hours ago was wailing her heart out over a fake corpse. “It’s so good to see you, and Richie too.”

The host leaves them then, handing them their menus with a cheery reminder to flag down a waiter when they’ve decided on what they want, or if they need help in deciding. Eddie looks down at the menu and sucks in a sudden breath, the old pseudo-asthma briefly tightening its iron grip on his lungs for a moment.

Richie leans over and hisses, “What the fuck is a shakerag blue?”

“How the hell should I know?” Eddie whispers right back, squinting at the items being offered.

“You’re the fancy Hollywood actor here, you’ve gone to events and shit,” Richie says, his voice low and conspiratorial. “You know this shit better than I do.”

“Yeah, and then I _left early_ ,” Eddie mutters. “I’m as lost as you are.”

“God, we’re a fucking pair,” Richie says. To Veronica, he says, “Hey, Ronnie, you’ve been to this place before, right? What’s the best meal?”

“Uh, not me,” says Veronica, holding her hands up. Her beaded bracelet slips down her wrist. “This restaurant was Heather’s idea.”

“It’s very stylish,” says Heather, leaning in now to grin at them, guileless and more enthusiastic than Eddie’s currently feeling right now. There’s a similar bracelet on her own wrist, that hadn’t been there while they were on set, and Eddie wonders suddenly just how close these two are. Then he decides not to ask. “All the rage, even—you guys should try the Maine lobster!”

Yeah, no, Eddie remembers enough about Maine not to want to touch anything coming out of it with a twenty-foot pole. Besides, lobsters are bad for the heart, or so he’s heard. “Yeah, no,” he says. “I’m from Maine.”

“Me too,” says Richie, the only exception to Eddie’s rule about not touching anything coming from Maine. “ _Fuck_ Maine and their lobsters. Anything else?”

“Maine can’t be that bad,” says Heather, reasonably.

“Ohio,” says Veronica, and that one word is so loaded down with bitterness that Eddie can’t help but glance at her, catch the way she looks down at her glass, the way her shoulders slump.

“Okay, fine,” says Heather, sitting back now, her fingers tucking strands of blonde hair back behind her ear. She’s a golden girl, this one, especially in the soft light of this restaurant: blonde hair, yellow scrunchie, white-and-gold shirt. The bracelet is the only thing about her that’s not yellow—it’s blue, instead, threaded through with pink and white. “What are you guys looking for?”

“Anything but Maine,” says Eddie. “And also anything that’s gluten-free.”

“I have seen you eat a burrito,” Richie says. “The gluten train’s left the station.” To Heather, he says, “Tell me what the cheapest item on this menu is. Tell me all of these items don’t have prices ‘cause they’re just that cheap.”

“Have you never been to a restaurant like this before?” Heather asks, raising her perfectly plucked eyebrows in genuine surprise.

“Nope, it’s all In-n-Out and cheap food stalls for us writers and producers,” Veronica says. “I think the fanciest we’ve ever gotten was—god, one of the afterparties once the Emmys were done.”

“HBO hired the _good_ caterers,” Richie says, nostalgic.

“What the fuck, no they didn’t, that was Vanity Fair,” says Eddie, because—well, he’s been to different afterparties and fancy restaurants over the years, okay, and HBO has consistently been kinda mediocre. “HBO had the fucking—heart attacks that looked like teriyaki shrimp, that’s what they had. And the _worst_ drinks.”

“Exactly!” says Heather. “HBO always hires the cheaper caterers, that’s why they’re consistently kind of terrible. You guys should eat better.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him,” says Eddie, waving a hand at Richie.

“I’m sitting _right here_ ,” says Richie. “And—you know what, the most familiar thing to me on this menu is the cheeses, I’ll have the cheeses.”

Eddie nudges his side, and says, teasing, “What happened to your sense of adventure?”

“The lack of prices on this menu killed it,” Richie says. Which is fair. Eddie is kind of dying at the lack of specific prices too.

“Don’t worry about _prices_ , honestly,” says Heather, waving a dismissive hand. “I’ll pay!”

“Oh, in that case,” says Eddie, his own sense of adventure reviving at the idea of not having to pay his own way, “I think we should try the sweet potato tortellini, huh, Rich?”

“Is that a pasta?” says Richie. Then he gasps. “Eddie Spaghetti!” he says, which is the worst fucking nickname and also an indicator of just how far gone Eddie is on this asshole, because if anyone else had pulled that nickname out of their ass he would’ve stood up and walked on out of here. “Are we going to eat your _family_? Your dearest _cousins_?”

Eddie rolls his eyes and jabs his elbow into Richie’s side. “Shut the hell up, Rich,” he huffs, as Richie snickers. “I’m trying the tortellini. You should too. I dare you.”

“You want me to participate in an act of cannibalism—”

“Double dog dare you.”

Richie pauses, then shrugs. “Fine,” he says, a small smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll eat your poor sweet potato cousins.” There’s a hint of mischief in his blue eyes, a twinkle that means Eddie’s in for trouble. Or at the very least he’s in for a somewhat embarrassing time.

And then Heather says, pulling Eddie out of his reverie, “Uh, so, should we order now? Do you guys want drinks or—”

“Recovering alcoholic,” says Richie, quickly, leaning back from Eddie, and—oh, shit. They got just a little too close, didn’t they. “I’ll just have a water. Eddie?”

“If they have a rosé I’d love it,” says Eddie, heat rushing to his cheeks.

“Told you this would happen,” says Veronica. “You get used to it.”

\--

When they step out of the restaurant, the world is spinning. Or maybe that’s just Eddie’s perception of the world. Whatever. Eddie leans against Richie, and the world slows down its spin for a little while when he does. He giggles into Richie’s hoodie, clutching at his sleeve, and slurs, “So _Nancy_. ‘S’it her season now?”

“Yeah-huh,” says Richie, his voice soft. Eddie likes his voice, as much as Richie sometimes tries to hide it behind impressions and shit. “Hope you don’t mind that we’re taking the spotlight off you for a bit. Don’t worry, Topher still does a lot in season two, he’s just gonna play support to his girlfriend now.”

“Deserves it,” Eddie mumbles. “Max too. She’s—fuckin’ _cool_. Lucas is a, a really lucky fuck.”

“Yeah, Lucas would agree with you about that,” says Richie. His hand is very warm on Eddie’s waist. Big, too. Eddie likes his hands. They’re clever and calloused with years of writing, always in motion, never still, not for long. He’s gotten off to memories of those hands on him. “Okay, I called a cab, should be here any moment. God, I’m so glad the girls went in their own taxi, I dunno how I would’ve hauled all three of you into a cab.”

“You’re smart, figure it out,” says Eddie.

“Even while drunk you still find a way to be a little turd,” says Richie, but he sounds fond and happy, so the flash of guilt remains just that, a flash. “So I talked to Mike today.”

Eddie hums, and tries to burrow even further into Richie’s hoodie. “Mike’s nice,” he says. “Little weird. But nice. Smart too. Not like you, but smart.” He pauses. “I like him.”

“Lucky you I don’t get jealous,” says Richie, patting his waist. Eddie nuzzles closer, because dammit, it’s _nice_ , being next to someone who loves him, curling up next to him. He wants skin on skin contact right now. Yesterday, even. “I like him too. But that’s not what I was talking about, he wanted me to help him out on this case he was working on the side.”

“Sherlock Tozier,” says Eddie, and giggles.

“Eddie Watson,” says Richie.

“No, ‘m’not fucking Watson,” says Eddie, reasonably, jabbing his finger into Richie’s side. “No, ‘m’cool. Cooler, even. The woman. Whatsername, Addy, Ashley—”

“Adler,” says Richie.

“Yep, her,” says Eddie, triumphantly. “Natalie Dormer.”

“Are you saying you’re a criminal mastermind masquerading as my boyfriend, Eddie?” Richie says, tilting his head towards him, and no no _no_ , that wasn’t what Eddie fucking _wanted_.

“No,” says Eddie, “no, ‘m’yours. We gotta, gotta _romance_ for the ages.” He leans his head against Richie’s shoulder, paws ineffectually at his chest. “Secret romance,” he informs him. “An’ ‘s’what all the good romances are. I know ‘cause I’m livin’ with Paul fucking Sheldon. Misery’s man, but he doesn’t wanna be.” He pauses, frowns, remembering that odd, horrible flash of certainty when Paul had left LA, that he would get in an accident somehow. “Rich, ‘m’worried ‘bout him,” he murmurs.

“Paul?” Richie asks. “How come?”

“I don’t fucking know,” says Eddie, squinting into the distance, for a moment half-convinced there’s a Winnebago coming up the road. “Think something might happen, though. Gets snowy in Co—Coler—”

“Colorado,” Richie supplies.

“Yeah,” says Eddie. “Fuckin’ Winnebago, I keep telling him, should get it checked more.”

“Eh, from what you’ve told me he’s gone to Colorado plenty of times before,” says Richie. “And he always comes back fine. He’ll be fine, Eds.”

“Like it,” Eddie murmurs.

“Hm?”

“When y’call me Eds,” Eddie explains, looking up to meet Richie’s shocked gaze. “Feels nice. Like a secret identity only we know ‘bout.”

“Oh,” says Richie.

“Y’re a pain in m’neck,” Eddie slurs. “But a good pain. Y’know? You’re—good.” His hands fly up to plant themselves on the sides of Richie’s face, and he says, urgently, “You’re _good_. Not poisoned. Not like me. You love right.”

“Eddie,” says Richie, and he sounds and looks so wrecked that Eddie lets go, the guilt worming through his intestines and churning up his insides like—like a lady churning up milk so it turns into butter. Or something like that. “Eddie, you’re not—Jesus, Eddie, you’re not poisoned. Unless you’re talking about how drunk you are, which, yeah, you are super fucking drunk.” Richie’s hands are on his elbows again, which is good because Eddie doesn’t think he can stand with his legs turning into jelly on him. “You’re good too, Eds, you love right too. Now come on, the taxi’s here.”

“Dunno what it fuckin’ looks like,” Eddie says, as Richie pushes him into the backseat of the taxi. “Love, I mean. Mom wasn’t—Mom woulda eaten me to show how much she loved me, y’know. Broke m’arm once. Fucked-up accident. She flipped her shit so hard at the nurses.” He giggles. “Wasn’t that bad. Not like she thought it was. More like—clean pain. An’ I survived it.”

“Yeah, you’re a survivor,” says Richie, absently, climbing in after him and shutting the door. He gives the name of their hotel to the taxi driver, and says, “Every word coming out of your mouth right now is really fucked up, you know that? Is this what happens when you drink rosé? Please never drink rosé again.”

“No promises,” Eddie says, curling up as close as he can to Richie’s side. “Myra wanted t’fix me. And she was real lonely too. We both were. She wanted a—a picture, I guess. The perfect marriage. Prove she was better than her fam’ly.” He hiccups. “Just didn’t know how to be happy. Didn’t think it was for me. But—y’know something?”

Richie’s fingers are on his face. Richie’s fingers are brushing his hair back behind his ear. “Yeah?” Richie says, and his voice is sunlight through the clouds, a burst of color in a little grey world. Eddie loves him. Eddie _loves him_ , with all of his heart.

“I met you,” says Eddie. “And. I think. I think I knew from the start. That I’d love you like this.” He yawns. “Rich?”

There’s water in Richie’s eyes. “God, you’re such a fucking sap,” Richie croaks. “Are you even going to remember this in the morning? ‘Cause I don’t think so, I’ve been down this road before. It goes away in the morning.”

“Not this time,” says Eddie, with conviction. “I’ll remember. I _will._ ”

\--

When Eddie wakes up, he wishes almost immediately that he _didn’t_.

God. Rosé always does this to him—blacks out the rest of the night after the third glass, and then when Eddie wakes up the next morning, sticks him with a debilitating migraine and a desert-dry mouth. He groans into his pillow, and rolls over onto his side. Thankfully the curtains have been drawn, so he doesn’t have to deal with the too-bright light, and he doesn’t have a scene today, because Lane wants to work with the actors portraying the Trevor family today. He should probably drop in anyway, just in case, but he figures Lane will text him if he needs him.

A glass of water sits on the bedside table, with a bottle of aspirin weighing down the note next to it: _Getting breakfast. Love you! - Richie_

So Richie’s not here right now, and a glance at Eddie’s phone says that it’s 9:27 AM. Eddie pops open the bottle of aspirin, shakes out one tablet and pops it into his mouth, then drains half the glass of water in one go. Then he hauls himself out of bed and to the bathroom, and by the time his shower’s done he feels marginally more human than he did before.

By the time that Richie gets back, Eddie’s dressed himself in casual outdoor clothes and is halfway through grimly drinking a cup of instant coffee. His Instagram feed is predictably terrible, and the less said about his Twitter the better. Myra’s beating the old drum about how she just wanted to fix a broken man, apparently, and Eddie’s DMs are full of gossip rag reporters trying to get his side of the story. He blocks them all and sends his PR team a note to point out that he’s actually doing pretty well for himself, thanks.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” says Richie, hip-checking the door closed. In his hands are two paper bags containing two breakfast McMuffins, and Eddie snatches one from him as soon as he gets in range, pulls it out to start munching on it. “Something up?”

“Ex,” says Eddie, shortly. “Handled, don’t worry about it. Anyway, what the fuck, dude, what is it with you and McDonald’s?”

“They’re cheap and I don’t even have to go inside to get breakfast,” says Richie. “Sucks I can’t get a toy without being looked at funny anymore, but whatever.”

“You are almost forty,” Eddie points out.

“I can just say I’m a collector,” says Richie. “Nobody looks twice at a forty-year-old _collector_ even if all he collects is _Star Trek_ memorabilia, but god fucking forbid that he play with his toys.”

“Yeah, but people still look at them weird,” Eddie says, before he bites into his McMuffin. Chew, swallow. Then he says, “I’m thinking about visiting my Aunt Debra today.”

“Oh,” says Richie, his voice flat. “You need backup?”

“Yeah,” says Eddie, rubbing at his temples. He can already feel the stress headache coming on, at the very thought of having to talk with his mom’s closest sister again. Debra O’Nan, née Phillips (formerly Filipowicz), used to pinch his cheeks and coo over how tall he had gotten, and she sided with his mother on every argument. _Listen to your mother, Edward, she knows best,_ she would say, eyeing him as though Eddie was a particularly disobedient lap dog who just needed a little more training to be the perfect little spoiled thing. Eddie hasn’t talked to her in _years_. “She’s—a piece of work, to say the least.”

“Why does everyone you’re related to sound like a piece of work?” Richie asks.

“I’m not sure,” says Eddie, shrugging. He takes a bite out of his muffin again.

Richie says, with no real preamble, “Do you remember anything about last night?”

Eddie stills. “No, why?” he asks, brain already running through all the worst-case scenarios. They didn’t do anything last night, he’s sure of that, he woke up to his clothes still on and clean sheets, and Richie’s not the type of person who’d pull that kinda shit on a guy. So it’s something that Eddie must’ve said or done last night before he passed out.

And it must be obvious what he’s thinking, because Richie shakes his head, reaches a hand out to take his and squeeze, gently. “Nothing bad happened,” he says. “I just wanted to ask. You said some things that you probably wouldn’t have said if you were stone cold sober, but none of it was _that_ fucked up.” Then he pauses, winces, and says, “Any more fucked up than you already told me before then, anyway.”

“Sorry,” says Eddie, because that feels like the right thing to say.

“Don’t be,” says Richie. “Just—remember that you’re the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me, okay?”

Yeah, right. But Eddie’s a little too hungover to argue that he’s not actually the best thing to happen to anyone, so he says, instead, “I’ll keep it in mind, okay,” and keeps eating his McMuffin. And if he keeps his hand in Richie’s, well, they’re in the privacy of their hotel room, after all. No one is going to notice them.


	8. 2016 - II.

Aunt Debra’s house in Dunwoody, it turns out, is just over an hour away from Eddie and Richie’s hotel. Eddie drives them there in their shitty little rental car, and although the GPS is on Richie half-suspects he doesn’t actually need it, because he takes turns and routes not even the GPS seems to be aware of. Richie tries, for the first couple of minutes, to take Eddie’s mind off the dread of coming to see his aunt, but Eddie is wound up so tightly that after the first couple of jabs get such a terrible and unexpected reaction ( _god, Richie, shut up for a couple of seconds, I’m trying to concentrate_ followed by _fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell that much_ ), Richie just lays off for the moment. He can have his goofs later.

Eddie pulls over in front of a white picket fence, with daffodils and marigolds and petunias and other flowers swaying softly in the breeze. Beyond the fence is a two-story house that once upon a time might’ve been painted periwinkle blue, but now the paint is fading and peeling. The windows are closed and tightly shuttered, the curtains barely twitching. Even from this distance, Richie can see the many, _many_ locks on the door, which is a little bit paranoid, frankly, in a suburban area like this.

Then again, who fucking knows what lurks in the suburbs, right?

Eddie leans over, yanks his glove compartment open, and curses. “Fucking hell,” he says, the first words he’s said in twenty minutes.

“What’re you looking for?” Richie asks.

“My inhaler,” says Eddie, shortly.

“You—have an inhaler?” Richie says. “Wait, hold on, is this—”

“It’s a mom thing, yes,” says Eddie, which really is all that Richie needs to know. “I don’t need it most of the time, because I don’t have fucking asthma, but sometimes I have—psychosomatic attacks and _where the fuck did I put that fucking thing—_ ”

“Whoa, hey, hey,” says Richie, curling his fingers loosely around Eddie’s wrist. “Eddie, hey. Calm down a moment, you’re panicking.” And he should know, he’s dealt with his own panic attacks before. Eddie doesn’t look close to one, but he’s definitely working himself up and Richie’s not too sure that’ll end well for everyone in this car. “Okay, first question: when’d you get an inhaler here in Atlanta?”

“What?” Eddie says.

“This is a rental,” says Richie. “I’m not sure what the policy is on taking inhalers you don’t actually need on airplanes, but since no one jumped on your ass for having one I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you didn’t bring one on the plane. Correctamundo?”

Eddie winces. But instead of snapping, he says, “No. Too much of a hassle to have to declare it and explain to TSA.”

“So probably your inhaler’s in LA,” says Richie. “Did you get one in Atlanta?”

Eddie shuts the glove compartment and pulls away. “Fuck,” he says, quietly, “I didn’t.” He scrubs his shaking hand over his face, and says, “Fuck, what was I thinking coming here? Without my goddamn _inhaler_ , too.”

“You wanted to dig up your past,” says Richie. “I think it’s a bad plan, personally, and if you wanna turn back now I would be all for it.” He places his hand on Eddie’s knee, and says, “But if you want to keep going I’ll be right behind you. I said I would be.”

Eddie gnaws on his lower lip, teeth flashing in the sunlight. His eyes dart down to Richie’s hand, and his hand drifts to lie on top of Richie’s. “It’s not a matter of _want_ ,” he says, finally. “I don’t want to be here. I just want to stay in the hotel room with you.” Then he looks up to meet Richie’s eyes, and there’s a fire in those brown eyes that Richie likes, the same kind of steel and fire that drew Richie in close in the first place. “But I _need_ to know,” he says. “At least so I can put it to rest. At least so I know where the nightmares are coming from.”

He squeezes Richie’s hand.

“Well,” says Richie, “what’re we waiting for, then? Let’s get this shit over with.”

So they get out of the car, and Richie absently turns the collar of his jacket up to guard against the chill of the Georgia air. He walks two steps behind Eddie, hands tucked into his pockets, and tries to squash down the impending sense of doom that’s curdling the contents of his stomach. It’s just a house. It’s just some old woman who dislikes Eddie. It’s just an ordinary day in Atlanta and they’re here to pay Eddie’s aunt a visit, that’s all. Hopefully it’ll be a short one, because Eddie’s family sounds like a total shitshow. Makes him even more impressed with Eddie, really, because somehow even with all that baggage Eddie still came out of it brave and good. Yeah, sure, an asshole too, but Richie is also an asshole and _he_ had pretty good parents, when they weren’t too busy with work.

The path to the porch might, once upon a time, have been a lovely cobblestoned path, awfully picturesque with the flowers and the house. Now, though, it’s largely missing the stones, and over the years of people walking on it, it’s grown scuffed and dirty. The front yard’s overgrown too, though not as much as it could be. Richie would bet good money that some neighborhood kid nips around sometimes to mow the lawn, but not often enough.

The stairs creak as they step on it, a more low-tech security system than any other back in LA. The geriatric dog napping on the porch lifts its head and starts barking at them, but Richie absently tosses him the remnants of his McMuffin to shut him up right after Eddie presses the doorbell.

Eddie, horrified, says, “You could kill that thing with that!”

“No I couldn’t,” says Richie. “It’s reasonably fresh, it’s fine.”

“There are some foods dogs can’t process!” Eddie says, jabbing his finger into the center of Richie’s chest. “That’s why you shouldn’t feed dogs anything other than specialized dog food! If they eat fucking _table scraps_ you run the risk of causing a case of food poisoning—”

The door creaks open, and an old woman’s whip-sharp voice says, “That dog has eaten much worse than someone’s table scraps.”

Richie turns at the same time Eddie does. A woman with short, iron-grey hair and beady, squinty eyes behind chintzy glasses glares out at them from behind the crack of her door. She squints at Eddie and says, flatly, “Well. Edward. Here I thought you’d never darken my door again, after what you did to your poor mother.”

Eddie presses his lips together into a tight line, and says, “Yeah, hi to you too, Aunt Debra. Listen, I know she left you some things—”

“You aren’t getting them back,” says Aunt Debra.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Eddie.

“ _Language_ ,” says Aunt Debra.

“Oh, wow, haven’t heard that since I turned twenty,” says Richie, unable to stop his mouth from going. “Just as a quick question, when’s Eddie allowed to cuss? ‘Cause he’s almost forty and frankly this no-swearing clause in his contract is really busting my balls here.”

“I’ll bust _your_ balls if you don’t _shut the hell up,_ ” hisses Eddie.

“I’d welcome it,” Richie whispers, and gets a sharp jab into his side for his troubles. “ _Ow!_ ”

“And who are you?” Aunt Debra says, her voice like acid as she looks Richie up and down, like he’s some neighborhood tramp she found sleeping on her porch.

“I’m Richie,” he says. “I’m Eddie’s friend.”

Aunt Debra’s eyes narrow. “Oh,” she says, glaring at him now, and Richie can’t help but think of—of bathroom graffiti, of sideways glances, of someone screaming slurs at him because he’d wanted too much, had let it slip out by accident. “You look familiar,” she says. “Weren’t you that junkie comedian? Washed out of the circuit, didn’t you?”

Richie’s teeth grind together. He has never, in his life, wanted to slug an old lady this badly before. “Nah,” he says, forcing his tone to stay casual. Beside him, Eddie is practically thrumming with fury. “That’s my evil twin. I’m just the writer.”

Aunt Debra looks between the two of them and says to Eddie, “You come here now, _begging_ for your mother’s things like you have any right to them after what you _did_ —”

“She did it first!” Eddie snaps, his rage boiling over. “ _She_ cut _me_ off! You think I _wanted_ her to disown me? She was still my fucking _mom_ , and if she had just asked without making an ultimatum I would’ve spared five fucking minutes!”

“She only did that because you were bringing such shame and embarrassment on her!” Aunt Debra roars, all but flinging the door open to stomp out and jab her finger into Eddie’s chest. She’s thin as a razor, all sharp angles and snarls, and Richie steps closer to Eddie, his hand drifting to catch Eddie’s elbow and squeeze. “All she did, she did to keep you safe! And you just kept throwing it all away, for _what?_ Your selfish needs?”

Eddie glances at him, shakes his head. To his Aunt Debra he says, “It isn’t fucking selfish to want to make my own goddamn decisions! _Especially_ when it comes to my own fucking health and career and even _who I fucking marry_!”

“You broke her heart when you married that woman!” Aunt Debra snarls. “And for what? For _what?_ You divorced that woman the moment it was convenient for you!”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” says Eddie, “her name’s Myra, the least you can do is say my ex’s fucking name, and I divorced her because our marriage was unhealthy for us!” He bats his aunt’s wrist away, and says, “Anyway, I kept asking her to come to my movies! Did you know that? She turned them all down!”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Aunt Debra says. “Her only son broke her heart when he walked away from her! Your poor mother, you never understood, she loved you so _much_ because she never wanted to lose you—”

“She _hurt me_ ,” Eddie says.

“She never laid a hand on you,” says Aunt Debra.

“More than one way to hurt someone without laying a finger on ‘em,” says Richie. “Listen, lady, we’re getting off-track here. We just came here for some of Eddie’s old things, that’s all.” He eyes the inside of the house, the stacks of things piled high all over the place—this woman’s a compulsive hoarder. There’s no way she wouldn’t keep something of her sister’s.

“They’re not here,” says Aunt Debra, and the shifty way she glances at Eddie then, like she’s gauging his reaction, says, _Lie._ “I took them out and burned them.”

“Like you burned all that shit behind you?” Richie asks, nodding to the stacks he can see. The house is a mess, far beyond Richie’s apartment—every spare inch seems taken up with something of sentimental value. “Listen, just give us her old photo albums. We’ll get out of your hair and you’ll never have to hear from us again.”

“Please, Aunt Debra,” says Eddie, tiredly, all the anger seeming to just seep out of him. “I wouldn’t have come here if it wasn’t important. I wouldn’t be asking you for them if I didn’t need them for something.”

“What’s this something?” Aunt Debra asks, warily.

“Research project that a friend’s doing for his book, and I can’t tell you much more other than it’s about Polish families who lived in Maine,” says Eddie, and yeah, no wonder he’s an actor, he looks perfectly earnest and sounds perfectly sincere, lying directly to his aunt’s face. “I said that I’d check and see if you kept anything important around.”

“Really,” says Aunt Debra, flatly.

“Really,” Eddie confirms. “Just—give me the albums and I’ll be out of your hair, okay? You’ll never have to hear from me again.”

“I hear about you too much already,” Aunt Debra grumbles, but she steps back. “In the closet upstairs,” she says, gruffly, “second door on the left, box with Sonia’s name on it.” She fixes him and Richie with a dark look, and says, “You’re not to touch anything else of hers. Just the albums. If you take anything else, I’ll kick you out of the house empty-handed.”

“Yeah,” says Eddie. “Got it.”

Richie troops in behind Eddie, trying to ignore the glare boring into the back of his neck. This woman doesn’t like him, and he can’t entirely explain _why_. Maybe she’s seen his name or heard his voice a couple times attached to such luminous properties as _The Simpsons_ , or _South Park_. He racks his brain, trying to remember—he’s been in a couple of documentaries before, hasn’t he? This old lady might’ve caught some of them and disapproved greatly, which he wouldn’t be surprised by. She seems like the type to disapprove of almost everything.

Eddie’s shoulders are up, and very tensed. As soon as Richie’s sure Aunt Debra’s not watching them, his hand slips into Eddie’s and squeezes, reassuring. Then he lets go.

“I hate this,” Eddie says, quietly, as they march up the stairs like they’re going to a fellow soldier’s funeral. “She was such an asshole even before Mom cut me off. I shouldn’t be surprised she’s even more of one now, but I kinda thought…I dunno, maybe she would’ve cooled off.”

“Reasonable thing to think,” says Richie. “Like you said, it’s been a long time. Normal, non-hoarder people cool off after a while.”

“Oh, god, yeah,” says Eddie, eyeing the stacks of magazines on the stairs with trepidation as they get to the last step, “Christ, she’s a fucking hoarder. You think I should call Hoarders on her?”

“Give it maybe a couple of months and then call for an intervention,” says Richie, as Eddie leads him down the corridor. It’s strange, how Eddie seems to just know almost immediately where to go, even in a place he hasn’t seen in years. “It’s a fucking miracle she hasn’t tripped over something and broken a hip.”

“Didn’t you see the cane to the side?” Eddie says. “I think she did, one time. She didn’t have a cane before.”

“Oh,” says Richie, digesting this bit of information. Now that he thinks about it, yeah, there had been a cane lying against the wall behind the door.

Eddie pulls the closet door open. It’s chock-full of boxes, and so dusty that they both reel back, coughing from it. “Fucking _hell_ ,” Eddie says. “She could’ve warned us!”

“I bet she’s trying to kill us,” Richie says, in between almost hacking up a lung, because holy fucking _shit_ , that’s a lot of dust. “Okay, okay, let’s just—grab the Sonia box and go. I don’t wanna stay here any longer than I have to, I swear to god I think she wants us to turn us both into fertilizer for her petunias.” He squints at the boxes, trying to find Eddie’s mother’s name helpfully printed on the side. “Oh, fuck, where is it?”

“No idea,” says Eddie, rolling up his sleeves, “but help me put all this shit on the floor so we can find it.”

It takes a while for that to happen, just because there’s so much _dust_ that Richie half-suspects it’s been years since Aunt Debra opened this closet. At one point, he’s pretty sure he can see a decomposing rat out of the corner of his eye, which is just all kinds of gross and will now forever haunt his nightmares, great, thank you, Aunt Debra, for giving him so many fucking nightmares. But eventually they get the boxes laid out onto the floor, and—

“So that’s three more boxes with your mom’s name than she said there would be,” says Richie.

“Of course she wouldn’t make it this easy,” Eddie grumbles, just as the stairs creak.

“Are you two _done_ up there?” Aunt Debra calls.

“Oh, shit,” says Eddie. “We can’t let her—”

“I’ll distract her,” says Richie, getting up and wincing when his joints protest at suddenly straightening back up. Yeah, he is definitely nearing forty. “You get whatever you need.”

“Don’t—Don’t tell her you fucked her mom or her sister, all right,” says Eddie, worriedly, “I think she’d actually kill you with that cane if you did.”

Yeah, Richie can’t help but agree. When he heads down, Aunt Debra’s already made it one step, and is clearly about to take another one. He kinda doubts she’s that slow, really—she’d seemed fast enough when she’d marched out onto the porch to give Eddie a piece of her mind for coming back here. And she must know that her house creaks. So this slow march up the creaky steps serves no other purpose than her own fucked-up timer.

Well, he can fix that.

“So!” Richie says, brightly, leaning on the stairway’s railing in such a way that the toe of his shoe touches the other side of the staircase, blocking her path up. “I don’t know about you, but I’m real fucking hungry. Could eat a horse, kind of hungry.”

Aunt Debra narrows her eyes at him. Richie grins back at her, friendly, and cheerful, and incidentally baring his teeth at her. _Fuck you, I’m bigger than you are, fuck you, I will keep you down here as long as Eddie needs me to._ “So make your own food,” she says.

“In my own kitchen, yeah, sure,” says Richie, casually. “But this is _your_ house, I dunno what’s here.”

“Find out for yourself,” says Aunt Debra.

Richie bats his eyelashes at her, and says in the voice of a good ol’ All-American Southern Boy, “Aw, _shucks_ , miss, ain’t you gonna help me out a bit? Since you’re being so swell with lettin’ us in and all, won’t you mind if I fix us up some lunch?”

“ _You_ can _cook_?” Aunt Debra asks, arching her eyebrow. God, the sheer amount of judgment rolling off her voice, just because Richie can feed himself. Some people just don’t make any fucking sense.

“I live alone, I had to,” says Richie. “Plus it impresses the girls I bring home.” It’s a lie, and even saying it makes him want to puke, because the only person he really wants to impress with his food is Eddie. And honestly, he can do the basics and microwave takeout, and not much else. But she doesn’t need to know any of that, so he forces the smile on his face again. “Let me make you some lunch,” he says. “You can watch me while I cook.”

“I have frozen mac and cheese,” says Aunt Debra, after a moment.

“I can work with that,” says Richie, and lets her yank him down the stairs and guide him towards the kitchen.

It’s hellish. To say the _least_. The woman is draconian in her methods, smacking Richie’s knuckles every time he reaches for an ingredient she doesn’t like, but keeping her attention all on him means he can just keep reaching for whatever he wants, and even sneak a couple extra ingredients in past her. Every time she even starts to pull away from him and towards the stairs, as if to check what Eddie’s doing, Richie steps in her way and deliberately says shit like, “Hey, for this recipe, you add three tablespoons of salt, right?”

The look of horror and fury on her face is so fucking good that Richie almost believes he can skip lunch and be sustained by the memory of it alone. But because he’s on a mission here, when she vindictively dumps a bowl of mac and cheese in front of him, he says, “So how about that new episode of _Days_ , huh? What a fucking twist, right?”

Aunt Debra glares at him, but rules of hospitality mean she has to sit down and say, “Wasn’t it just?”

Richie smiles back. He has no fucking clue what twist was in the newest episode of _Days of Our Lives_ , and he frankly doesn’t give a shit. But he says, “God, I was on the edge of my _seat_ the whole time,” because a good host, he’s learned from his parents, does not leave a conversation for no good reason when the guest wants to carry on with it.

Eddie comes back down, eventually, carrying dusty photo albums under his arm and tucking something into his jacket pocket, and knocks on the kitchen doorway to get their attention. Richie’s putting away the last of the mac and cheese into his stomach, and says, “Anyway, thanks for the help, Miss—”

“O’Nan,” says Aunt Debra.

“Yeah,” says Eddie, tightly. “Come on, Rich. Let’s go.”

\--

“Did you get anything else from her?” Richie asks, later, on their way back to the hotel.

Eddie smiles, then says, “Yeah. Letters from someone in Maine.” He fishes out a postcard: _Welcome to Derry!_

\--

**Recently Closed**

what the hell is in derry maine - Google Search  
www.google.com

derry maine supernatural - Google Search  
www.google.com

Derry (disambiguation) - Wikipedia  
en.m.wikipedia.org

Eddie Kaspbrak - Wikipedia  
en.m.wikipedia.org

Eddie Kaspbrak - IMDb  
m.imdb.com

childhood amnesia - Google Search  
www.google.com

\--

**Richie**

_**Today** 5:21 PM_

hey, Rich

you land okay?

yeah yeah you know.  
just kinda tired! jet lag is real and it fucking suuuuucks.  
how’s shooting without me?

very peaceful, have not been in danger of high blood pressure in days

suffering from a lack of being dragged to hole in the wall diners, though

Mike does his best, but it’s just not the same, you know?

oh i know ;)  
you should talk to him about derry btw.  
he’s working on something about it, he could probably help you find whatever you’re looking for.

riiiiight what am I supposed to say to him

hey, Mike, I suddenly remembered being from a town I have literally no real memory of, know anything about that?

he knows a lot more than you’d think.  
just try it, eds.  
at least it’d be nice to know if you weren’t alone, yeah?

\--

“Hey,” says Mike, “is that Richie?”

Eddie shoves his phone back into his bag, having already gotten into costume for Haddock beforehand. “Oh, yeah, he was just letting me know he landed okay last night,” he says. He misses Richie already, stupid Voices and all, and he feels a little off-kilter without him around. Less so, since Mike is here, and—y’know, he kinda likes Mike. Guy seems nice. “We were just—chatting a little. Catching up on what I’ve missed in LA.”

“You miss LA?” Mike asks, sitting down next to him.

“Well, yeah,” says Eddie. “It’s a lot less cold there, for starters. Out here it feels like it’s fucking subzero.”

“Or you’re just too used to the LA sunshine,” Mike suggests, which, fair, Eddie has been a West Coast denizen for—god, over a decade now. At the very least he’s been in LA for much longer than he was in New York, and he’d loved New York enough to still subscribe to the New Yorker even now that he hasn’t been in the city in ages.

“That too,” Eddie says, watching Lane directing Heather and Jacob Tremblay, who’s snacking on a chocolate bar after an intensely emotional scene. Kid’s a champ already, with one highly-acclaimed drama under his belt.

“You two are pretty close,” says Mike, after a moment. “I mean, I figured you would be, since he’s the only person you consistently talk about all the time, but—you’re _close_. You sure you only met last year?”

“I mean, I’ve probably talked with him a couple of times on _CSI_ when I think about it,” says Eddie, scratching at his cheek, remembering how Richie had kissed it in the car before he’d stepped outside to get his things. “But never anything substantial. Yeah, we only really became friends last year.” And they’ve only been boyfriends for a few weeks at most, but that’s not information he can just freely give to Mike. He _likes_ the guy, sure, and he feels like he can trust him, probably, but—if it was just Eddie, sure, he’d come out to this guy. But it’s not just Eddie, and he can’t—he can’t blow Richie’s secret like that. Even if he trusts Mike not to react poorly. Even then.

It’s lonely, being in the closet. The fact that Richie’s in there with him isn’t really helping as much as it ought to.

“Huh,” says Mike. “I would’ve pegged you as childhood friends, honestly.” He scratches the back of his neck, as if sheepish about the assumption. “The in-jokes, the degree of comfort you guys have around each other—I’ve known some of my friends for years and we don’t have your kind of rapport.”

_Unless there’s sex involved between you and your friends, no, I really don’t think so._ Eddie keeps that smartass remark back, and says instead, “You know something weird? You wouldn’t be the first person who’s said that about me and Richie.”

“Really?” Mike asks.

“Yeah, Veronica Sawyer thought it was weird we’d gotten so friendly too,” says Eddie. “But then she saw how we first met, and if you saw that you’d be surprised that we even became friends at _all_ , he’s such a trashmouthed asshole.”

Mike’s eyebrows draw together, and for a moment his eyes go unfocused, as if he’s trying to recall something. Then he shakes his head, and says, “Trashmouth?”

“Yeah, ‘cause of all the dirty jokes,” says Eddie, leaning back against his chair, unable to suppress a small smile. He already misses those damn jokes. Must be some kind of Stockholm syndrome setting in, only for bad jokes instead of kidnapping.

“Huh,” says Mike, “where’d you get that nickname?”

And—huh. Now that Mike mentions it, Eddie can’t actually recall. He sits up straight again, frowning. “I—don’t know,” he says. “I think maybe—maybe I knew someone like him, when I was a kid? I don’t fucking _know_.” He rubs his fingers against his temples, against the building headache, and says, “Mike, I—I should probably get going. They’re gonna need me for the next scene.”

Mike’s hand curls around his elbow, holding him fast to the chair, but it’s loose enough that if Eddie wanted to, he could break out of it. And he knows that. And he knows Mike knows that. Big guy like him’s got a stronger grip than that, but something about the intensity of his gaze holds Eddie there.

“Stop me if I’m wrong,” Mike begins, “but you don’t remember much about being a kid, do you?”

Eddie settles back into his chair. Beyond them, Heather and Jacob’s scene restarts—Lane wants another go, another angle. _This is the last time you see him like this,_ Lane’s saying, his voice faint and distant to Eddie’s ears. _You know something’s coming to an end. You know something new is beginning. But you want to hold on, just a little while longer._

What does Eddie have to hold on to, from his childhood? Just some scattershot memories, an unsigned postcard, things his mother kept from him as a last spiteful way of keeping the child she had borne all to herself. Because she’d never really seen him as an adult, was the thing, never really thought her little boy could one day become a man, who didn’t need his mother shadowing his footsteps anymore. No, he doesn’t remember much. And frankly if he thinks about it, Richie has a point, doesn’t he? Why poke at this bear? Why try to dig and dig when even his own subconscious doesn’t want it dragged back out into the light?

_Because you want to know who you are. Because you want to know where you came from, besides your mother’s womb. Because you want to know who else loved you, because they did love you, those people, and they loved you the way you know, deep down in your heart, you should’ve been loved from the start._

“No,” Eddie admits. “But nobody does, right? Childhood amnesia’s a common phenomenon.”

“Not this kind,” says Mike. “The first real memory you have wasn’t of your hometown, was it?”

Eddie breathes out slow, because Mike’s not wrong. He remembers Bangor with full clarity, yes, the Paul Bunyan statue and the long, slow walks along Penobscot River. He used to take girls out that way, because he’d heard it was romantic, taking the scenic route along the river. But Bangor hadn’t been his hometown.

_Welcome to Derry!_ the postcard had read.

“No,” he says. “Pretty sure my hometown was a total shithole, though, if I’m repressing the hell out of it. You’ve heard of this place called Derry?”

Mike nods, and says, “Yeah, I have. As it happens, I’m from Derry, too.” He smiles, ironic, and says, “Not that I remember much about it either. I took my grandpa to Florida, as soon as I’d scraped together the money for it, and there I stayed.”

“Are the ‘gators really that big there?” Eddie asks, unable to resist.

“Much bigger,” Mike solemnly says. “But Derry—it’s weird. Almost everyone I know from Derry doesn’t remember it, or if they do, it’s only in the vaguest, most general sense.”

Eddie sits up, and says, “I—I’ve got some shit from my mom that I think you might want to take a look at.” He nods to Heather and Jacob, wrapping their scene up, and says, “When we’re done here, I’ll show you.”

\--

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” says Veronica, as Richie walks into the writers’ room, on the first day they’re using to break the story for season two, after the initial writers’ meeting over Skype, “someone save me from assholes with meta spec scripts about—actors having affairs on set and shit.”

It’s a downright Herculean effort for Richie to keep his mouth shut. _Technically, it wasn’t on set, we had sex after reshoots,_ is already on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it back. Veronica might already be guessing at what exactly is going on between him and Eddie, sure, but no way he’s going to confirm it for her. Especially not if Eddie hasn’t even come out yet. That’s just a dick move.

Instead he says, “You poor baby. Jealous people who don’t exist are getting more action than you are on set?”

Veronica raises her middle finger at him, and says, “Eat a dick, Tozier.”

“That’s what my boyfriend’s for,” says Richie, absently, before clapping his hand over his mouth. But it’s too late, Veronica’s whipped around in her office seat, her eyes wide.

“You have a _boyfriend?!_ ” she exclaims. “Holy shit!”

Richie all but launches himself forward, hands grabbing her arm rests, and hisses, “Shut up! Shut the fuck up, Ronnie, oh my god—”

“Okay, okay, sorry,” says Veronica, holding her hands up, “I’ll keep it down. Sorry, it’s just a shock to hear out of you.”

Richie retreats back into his chair, and runs a hand through his hair. She hasn’t asked just who the boyfriend is yet, which, thank god, because Richie doesn’t really want to lie to her about that. “Yeah, it was a shock to both of us too,” he says. “But, you know, we’re in the honeymoon period, we’re happy, he fucks like a goddamn dream.”

“You lucky bastard,” Veronica marvels. “You really didn’t need my help finding someone, huh?”

“Nope,” says Richie, smug. “But, yanno, thanks for all the attempts at helping.”

“ _Attempts_ , he says,” Veronica huffs, just as Francine comes in, with a box of donuts in hand. The other writers, the staff and the freelancers, troop in behind her, carrying various foodstuffs and writing implements, and take their customary places around the table. “Okay, you start the session, hotshot, since you’re the head writer here.”

“You’re the _showrunner_ ,” Richie says, but he stands up anyway. His eyes stray towards the door as he speaks—he’s done enough introductions to their sessions that he can do this in his sleep—and Eddie isn’t there. Isn’t going to be there, because he’s in Atlanta, shooting a movie.

He looks back at the assembled writers in front of him, and grins at them, squashing down the disappointment that’s bubbling in his chest, and steadfastly doesn’t look at Veronica.

Later, after they’ve adjourned the meeting, after they’ve eaten and left behind nothing but empty boxes and wrappers to dump into the trash can, Veronica catches Richie by the sleeve. Everyone else has walked out already, chattering about the story arc and figuring out the episode plots they want to work on, and Richie’s about to head out when he feels a tug on his sleeve and turns.

“Yeah?” he says.

“If it’s who I think it is,” she says, “I’m happy for you guys. I really am.” She hesitates a moment, and then says, “But you have to be careful, if you’re not ready to go public with it just yet.” _Because it isn’t just you two on the line here,_ she doesn’t say, _because the show is on the line here, because if you don’t take control of the narrative from the word go then the gossip rags and Twitter will be more than happy to make one for you, and it won’t look good for anyone involved, and I don’t want you to get tarred and feathered and dragged down Hollywood Boulevard._

Richie hears it all, anyway. Shrugs, trying to calm his rabbit heart, because have they really been that obvious? “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Ronnie, we’ll be careful.”

\--

When Eddie comes back to LA, the first thing he demands is that Richie take him to go see a movie. “And not one where I have to read my way through, either,” he says. “You and your fucking weird fetish for movies nobody else understands.”

“They’re _avant-garde_ ,” says Richie.

“They’re incomprehensible is what they are,” says Eddie. “Chinese action movies I get, those guys have some insane fight choreography, but if I have to sit through some fucking—Swedish movie about mermaids as an _allegory_ —”

“You watched it!” says Richie, delighted. He reaches up to adjust the rear view mirror, minutely. “You might be bitching about it but you _still_ watched it, so who fucking wins, huh?”

“I watched it so I could understand what the fuck were you so excited about,” says Eddie, huffy. His hand is on Richie’s, over the center console, and Richie feels as if he’s found his home at last. Hadn’t even known he was looking for it, but here it is, home in the form of Eddie Kaspbrak, with his terrible movie opinions and his ridiculously expressive face. “And I _still_ don’t. An hour and a half of my life, wasted on this movie.”

“It’s an allegory about climate change,” says Richie.

“He says driving a Mustang,” says Eddie. He rubs his thumb over Richie’s knuckles, and says, “So I talked to Mike about Derry.”

“Oh, hey, good for you,” says Richie. “You guys gonna start a support group or something?”

“No,” says Eddie. “What the hell kind of support group would that even be? _Hi, I’m Eddie, I don’t remember shit-all about my childhood,_ and then more of that around the circle?” He snorts out a laugh, and shakes his head. “No, we’re just digging into what the hell is going on with Derry. He mentioned you were helping him out?”

“When I can,” says Richie. “You guys need an outsider’s perspective on this, after all, and I’m pretty good at research shit.” And if he runs into a paywall or something he can just kick it over to Francine or another writer, with the excuse of needing it for season two. Or maybe even the mythical season three, if they get that far. _The case of the missing hometown,_ he’d call it.

“What have you found so far?” Eddie asks.

“Not a lot,” says Richie, with a shrug. “It’s a shithole rural town. They built a strip mall back in the _nineties_ , that’s how far behind the times they are, and their only tourist attraction is some big-ass statue of Paul Bunyan.” The Voice bubbles up out of nowhere, the Voice of a fifties radio announcer: “Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, and see the only anatomically-correct Paul Bunyan statue in the entirety of Maine! His schlong is at least two inches longer than the one in Bangor, as evidenced by the size of the bulge in his pants!”

Eddie laughs, shaking his head as if he can’t believe that joke’s pulled a laugh out of him. “Yeah, I think the statue’s actually smaller than the one in Bangor, they had to shave a couple inches off him.”

“Those inches had to go somewhere,” Richie says. “It’s conservation of energy. It’s like a law of physics.”

“That is _not_ how that works,” Eddie marvels.

“It is how it works!” Richie says. “Everything in the universe that’s taken away doesn’t actually disappear from the universe, it just goes into something else. In this case, they shaved a couple inches off the statue’s height, and gave it to his,” he pauses for effect, “ _axe._ ”

“That’s a terrible euphemism!”

“He says having starred in _Misery_.” Richie slows the car when they hit a red light, until they’re nose to bumper with a black van, the kind that’s getting popular with parents these days. CHILDREN ON BOARD, reads a sticker stuck on the back window. He drops into an upper-class British accent, and says, “ _Oh, Misery, take my member, my straight arrow of love, take it right into your love cave!_ ”

Eddie melts into giggles, fist pounding against his thigh. “Oh, god, I forgot about f- _fucking_ —I had to say that shit with a _straight face_ —”

“Not that straight,” says Richie. “But yeah, I could never say that shit with a straight face.”

“It’s called _acting_ ,” says Eddie. “Also, I broke character so many times trying to say those lines, which was just fine at the table read, but in the middle of a sex scene with Piper Perabo?” He shakes his head, says, “I think it took us ten takes to stop cracking the fuck up.”

“How’d you stop?” Richie asks.

“We just ended up cutting the lines out,” says Eddie. “I think Paul just wanted a laugh, that was why he kept those lines from the book.” He leans against his head rest, looking out the window to the cars slowing to join them at the red light.

“Sounds like you guys are friends,” says Richie.

“I wouldn’t say friends,” Eddie starts.

“He let you live in his stupidly expensive basement and he trusts you with house-sitting,” says Richie. “You told me he blocked your ex’s number from calling you and she had to get around it with a pay phone. You’re worried about him.” He shrugs, glares up at the stoplight. Jesus, when’s it gonna change? “You should call him,” he says. “Just to check on him.”

“I could,” Eddie says, tiredly, “but the thing is, I can’t.”

“Why not?” Richie asks, confused.

“He’s up in the fucking mountains with no cell signal,” says Eddie. “There’s no way to contact him except through his agent, and unless it’s urgent business she’s not going to pass it on to him.” He rubs his hand over his face, and says, “I’m—I’m sure he’s fine. He’s done this before. The worst that’s going to happen to him is he gets a little bit more fucked up than usual and wakes up with the world’s worst hangover and a chapter full of gibberish. That’s all.”

It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself, really. Richie knows what Eddie sounds like when he’s really, truly certain about something, and right now he just sounds like he’s trying to be. Which says something, maybe, about how well they’ve gotten to know each other.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he says. “But hey, in the meantime—can’t hurt to pass something along.”

The traffic light flickers green. Richie shoves the brake back into driving position and presses down on the gas pedal, just enough that they get moving again.

“Sure, but what am I gonna say, huh?” Eddie says. “Hey, Paul! It’s Eddie. Fix your fucking Winnebago so you don’t fuck yourself over on the way back from Colorado. Also, your house is fine, nothing’s happened besides the neighbor’s dog shitting in front of it, and it’s cleaner than you keep it now. See you soon.”

“Use that,” says Richie. “And, wait, what’s wrong with his Winnebago?”

“Nothing!” Eddie says, throwing his hands up and knocking his knuckles against the roof of the car. “Ow, okay—I dunno. Last I checked it, two weeks before he left, he was running low on brake fluid, so I got him a can. He told me he’d refilled it before he left, so I’m not too worried about it.” He sighs. “I shouldn’t be, anyway. Fuck if I know anything about Colorado.”

“Well, he’d know his car best of all of us,” says Richie. He slows down when he sees the movie theater’s marquee, slides into a parking slot just outside, and says, “Anyway, we’re here! Sure you don’t want to go home?”

“Nah,” says Eddie. “I’m sure Molly can stand to house-sit for a few more hours. Right now, I just want you to take me on an actual _date_.”

“Your wish,” says Richie, imitating Robin Williams’ Genie voice as closely as he can, “is my command.”

\--

**BOOK REVIEW: _Misery’s Child_ by Paul Sheldon (Misery #13)**  
by Maddie Pace

**MAJOR SPOILERS FOR MISERY’S CHILD**

Misery Chastain is dead.

It’s only fitting, really, that Misery should die in the thirteenth installment of her eponymous series. Thirteen has always been an unlucky number in many cultures, and literature has not shied away from leaning into that reputation. Especially not Paul Sheldon, who has finally ended the beloved series with a note of hope.

But first we have to backtrack. _Misery’s Child_ isn’t really about her death, and indeed her death only comes as a surprise in the thrilling, heartbreaking climax. It’s about her attempts to conceive a child with Lord Geoffrey Alliburton, and the heartbreak that comes with every failure at this. Her grief, and Geoffrey’s, is palpable…

_Read more!_


	9. 2016 - III.

The press tour for _Night Shift_ starts midway through February. The cast starts going on talk shows, individually and together, hyping up the show. To his shock, Eddie’s asked to come on _Saturday Night Live_ —they’d tried to get Max, he finds out, but she’d turned them down on account of a scheduling conflict. Eddie’s pretty much the only one besides her husband who knows what she turned it down for: her and Lucas’s twelfth wedding anniversary.

“What the fuck?” Eddie says when she tells him, baffled. “Twelve years? Really?”

“I know this might come as a surprise for you, Eddie,” Max says, gathering up a truly ungodly amount of spaghetti with her fork, “but sometimes marriages last even in Hollywood! Look at Will and Jada.”

“But—it’s _SNL_ ,” says Eddie.

“Yeah, I know,” says Max. “That’s why I told them to ask you.”

So that’s why he ends up entrusting Paul’s place to Molly, _again_ , and booking a plane to New York. Richie invites himself along, and spends the whole flight joking about the Mile High Club and _Snakes On A Plane_ and the chances that someone accidentally smuggled venomous snakes onboard and they can actually reenact the movie.

“We would _die_ ,” says Eddie.

“No, we wouldn’t,” says Richie. “We’re Samuel L. Jackson in this scenario. We’re totally gonna survive this. And figure out how to land the plane without killing everybody onboard.”

“Pilots train for _years_ to learn that shit,” says Eddie, heatedly. He prods Richie’s shoulder with his finger, for emphasis. “Fucking _years_!”

“That only means we’d be the most badass bitches in this entire plane,” Richie says, stubborn as always, not backing down.

“Or we’d crash!”

It’s only after they land that Eddie realizes something—not once did he panic over any possibility of turbulence. He hadn’t needed to pop a Xanax and sleep uneasily on the flight, gripping onto the seat too tightly. Instead all that nervous energy had gone into arguing with Richie, picking one of their many, many trivial arguments over nothing at all, and all right, maybe they’ve annoyed the hell out of the people behind and in front of them, fine. But. It’s—strangely sweet.

“I love you,” he says, in the rental car, an Escalade that he kind of wishes he could buy. “You know that, right?”

Richie turns the engine over, and it purrs to life under their feet. When he looks at Eddie, his face is soft, and lined with light. “I know,” he says. “I—I love you too.” Then he grins. “You’re gonna be on _Saturday Night Live_ , you lucky little shithead.”

“Yeah,” says Eddie, “it’s gonna be insane. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.”

“Mm, I think I could help with that,” says Richie, winking unsubtly. That sets Eddie off into a laugh—god, he thinks he might have laughed more this past year than he ever has since, god, since as far back as he can remember. It’s like he’s finally woken up, like he’s finally walked out of the fog and into the daylight, and it’s so _bright_ and beautiful, and the world is so much more colorful, so much more vivid, so much _more_. He wants to scream how happy he is from the rooftops. He wants to kiss Richie in the sunlight, unafraid. “Same hotel room, right? Just different beds.”

And that snaps Eddie back into reality. They’re toeing a line here, and he knows it. If this gets out before they’re ready it could hurt not just them, but so many other people. After all, they met on the show. Someone might think Eddie only got the role because he and Richie are fucking. God, if Myra finds out—

Well, he wouldn’t put it past her to spread that rumor around.

“Hey,” says Richie, taking Eddie’s hand and squeezing it. “Earth to Spaghetti Man. Fettuccine Man.”

“Do not call me either of those,” Eddie croaks.

“My pasta superhero,” Richie continues.

“I know where you sleep,” Eddie threatens him.

“Well, if you didn’t I’d be real worried,” says Richie, as their car turns right and slides right into an open space between a minivan and a sedan. “You worried about SNL?”

Oh, god, that too. SNL is _live_ , obviously. Unlike _Night Shift_ and pretty much all of Eddie’s career, there’s no room for fucking up on SNL. “I can’t fuck up on SNL,” Eddie says, “I can’t—oh, god, if I fuck up on SNL it’s going down in history, Jesus, first fucking time going on a live show and I forget the _punchline_ or my entire fucking _monologue_ —”

“Have you written a monologue yet?” Richie asks.

“Nope!” Eddie says. “Every time I try my head goes fucking blank! And that’s not even going into the sketches, Jesus, Rich, these people have been in the business of funny for _years_ , they have shit like, like comedic timing and impressions down pat and what the fuck have I got, huh?” He runs a hand through his hair, knowing he’s messing it up, knowing he’s working himself up, and not fucking able to stop it. His head is running through multiple worst-case scenarios, and too many of them end in him and Richie breaking up, which, fuck, no.

“Oh, Eds,” says Richie. “You’ve got great timing, okay? You’re great at improv. I’ve seen you, Manny and Max improvise a three-way argument about vampires and how to catch them on camera for ten minutes, okay, you’re better at this than you think you are.” The car inches forward, and Richie’s hand squeezes Eddie’s again, a reassuring weight over his. “They’ve got a teleprompter so you don’t have to worry too much about forgetting your lines,” he adds. “And about the monologue—do you need help with writing it or do you want me to like, sit on you and make you write the damn thing?”

“If you sit on me I’ll be distracted,” says Eddie. “I just—I don’t know, I need an idea. I need inspiration, isn’t that how you writers work? Where do you pull your inspiration?”

“If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me that question I’d be so rich I could fuck Jeff Bezos up the ass with a golden dildo,” says Richie. “I have no fucking idea, man. Sometimes it just pops into my head unbidden, sometimes I see something and my brain randomly comes up with an idea that’s only tangentially related.” He shrugs. “You could talk about _Misery’s Child_ and its ending,” he says. “Or _Game of Thrones_.”

“I haven’t read Paul’s new book yet,” says Eddie. “And I haven’t caught up on GOT yet.”

“Don’t catch up,” Richie mutters darkly. “Fucking bastards are gonna run their show into the ground, I can fucking feel it.”

Okay, clearly, Richie has a bone to pick with the writers of GOT. That’s really not Eddie’s business. His business is figuring out what the hell kind of monologue he’s supposed to do. “Do you know when I’m supposed to have that monologue figured out?” he asks.

“By Wednesday,” says Richie, “so you’ve got time to rehearse.”

“Cool,” says Eddie, “great, how the hell am I supposed to write a five-minute monologue?”

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” says Richie, lowering his voice as if conspiring with Eddie, “it doesn’t have to be that long and complicated. It can be as short as you want.” He pauses. “Maybe not, like, a couple of words, but—just do a few sentences about whatever, hawk the show somewhere in there, and then you’re off to your first sketch of the night.”

And just like that, an idea pops right into Eddie’s head. “What if I did something like your NDA bit?” he asks. “The one you did at Casilda?”

Richie presses down on the brake. “You remembered that bit?” he says, incredulously. “I was just ranting about how hard it was to keep my mouth shut. You _liked_ that bit?”

“Uh, yeah, duh, it was funny,” says Eddie. “Is that okay with you? I’m not going to rip your thing off, I’m just gonna riff off it.” Oh, god, Richie’s probably possessive of his comedy or some shit like that. It’s one thing for Eddie to recite his words or play his characters, but it’s another to use the bits he came up with, for himself, as a foundation for his own monologue. Christ. “If you don’t want me to,” he says, immediately, the words almost tripping over each other on their way out of his mouth, “I won’t.”

Richie says, his voice cracking like an old man’s, “ _Do it._ ”

Eddie stares at him. At the grin that’s broken across his face, the tremble of his shoulders.

Then he says, “Is that fucking _Palpatine_ —”

Richie, laughing too hard to speak, nods frantically.

“I cannot fucking believe you,” huffs Eddie, but something in his heart just—eases, a little. All right. He can do this.

\--

“I can’t fucking do this,” Eddie says on Tuesday morning.

“Oh, gimme your phone,” says Richie, smacking his shoulder, his voice muffled by the pillow, “I’ll punch it up for you.” He’s still naked under the bedsheets, hickeys littering his neck and collar. It’s a good thing it’s still winter in New York, or else people would have some questions about why, exactly, is Richie walking around with a scarf.

“Go back to _sleep_ ,” says Eddie. “I can figure this out.”

“Mmkay,” Richie mumbles, then turns back over onto his side, taking the pillow with him.

Eddie sighs, then puts his phone on the nightstand and rifles through his suitcase, pulling out a change of clothes. Once he’s dressed himself, he presses a kiss to Richie’s temple, and says, “I’m going for a walk. Maybe the change of scenery’ll do me some good.”

“Love ya,” Richie says, raising his head just enough to blink sleepily at Eddie. “Bring back breakfast. Maybe a bagel with lox and cream cheese.” Then he plants his face back into the pillow, and is snoring again within seconds, starfished out onto the bed.

Eddie runs his hand through Richie’s bedhead a final time, then grabs his phone off the nightstand, stands up and walks out of the room, winding his scarf around his neck and turning his collar up.

Writing, he’s finding out now, is a lot harder than Paul and Richie made it out to be. It isn’t just a flash of inspiration and then _zoom_ , you’re off, here goes Eddie Kaspbrak in the Google Docs app. It’s trying to pull words out of an uncooperative mind, and put them together in a way that not only makes sense, but is _funny_ , too. And he’s not exactly good at knowing if his own shit’s all that funny, really. Richie might think otherwise, but Richie’s biased.

He steps out into the cold New York air, pulling a beanie on, and shivers when the wind blows gently against his face. God, LA really has spoiled him. Used to be the cold didn’t bother him to this level, but now he can feel the chill acutely. He should’ve brought more cold-weather clothes with him. Worn another layer. Or something.

He jams his hands into his pockets.

What had Paul said it was like? Oh, yeah. _A hole in the paper,_ Paul had slurred once, when Eddie, a little buzzed after having gotten a job playing some awful frat bro in a frat comedy, had asked him about his process once. _Like looking through a hole in the paper._ Richie’s not exactly helpful when it comes to talking about his own process, but Eddie figures that’s just because he’s been doing this so long that it’s become kind of indescribable to him. So Eddie’s gotta figure it out by himself.

And for a fucking monologue, too.

He sighs, and his breath mists out in the New York air. The problem here is he’s _trying_ to be funny first thing, he supposes. Maybe he should just—type it up in the Notes app, no funny needed, and then head back and make Richie read it over.

His feet take him, almost automatically, into a small, artisanal bakery that’s half-full at 9 AM. He hasn’t got anywhere to be until after lunch, which is when he needs to head to 30 Rock to take a look at what’s been cooked up so far. He’d asked Richie if he wanted to come along and take a look, but Richie had shaken his head and admitted to wanting to visit a cousin in the city, some guy named Stefon and his husband. So Eddie is going to have to be doing this alone, then.

“Hey, uh, you okay?” a male voice asks.

Eddie startles, turns to see a— _very_ attractive guy with a goatee and a smattering of grey hair, holding his hands up already as if to make sure Eddie knows he means no harm. There’s a half-eaten breakfast wrap in his hand, the healthy kind with lettuce and celery hanging out where he’s bitten into it. He is, in fact, very hot. He also has a Columbia University professor’s ID hanging off the breast pocket of his kinda tweed-y coat. _Benjamin Hanscom,_ the ID reads.

Beside him’s a woman, with red hair chopped short. She’s a little more stylish than her boyfriend (buddy?) Hanscom, her trench coat a darker shade of red than her hair and her combat boots a snazzy black, and she holds a paper cup full of coffee in one hand, the other tucked into a pocket. Under her coat, Eddie can just about see a shirt with some indie band’s name printed on it. “Oh my god,” she says, her eyes wide. “Aren’t you—”

“Yes,” says Eddie, with a sigh, discreetly readjusting his scarf so neither of them can see how Richie fucking mauled his neck. “I’m Eddie Kaspbrak.”

The woman whistles, lowly. “Kay is going to love this story,” she says. “I think we overplayed the Misery adaptations after I broke up with—well, the bastard.”

“May he fry in hell,” Hanscom says, and she snickers like it’s an old in-joke between them. So, at the very least, they’re good friends. “Sorry if I disturbed you, it’s just—you were staring pretty intensely at those bagels.”

_Well, see, I have high standards for the bagels I’m going to bring my boyfriend in bed,_ Eddie doesn’t say. “I just have high standards,” he does say, kind of wishing this interaction was over already. It’s always awkward meeting fans when you’re just trying to buy some shit. “But hey, I’m—I’m happy _Misery’s Lover_ entertained you after you and your ex broke up.”

“Yeah, it was pretty good,” says the woman. “Hey, uh, listen—if it’s good bagels you’re looking for, you should try Tompkins Square Bagels.”

And suddenly she is now, officially, Eddie’s favorite person. “Thanks,” he says, relieved. “Do you guys, uh, want a picture or—”

“Yeah, no, it’s fine,” says Hanscom, and the hell of it is, unlike most other people who bump into Eddie and recognize him, he’s _sincere_ about it. “Bev was just walking me to the station. I’ve gotta go to work anyway, I’m late enough as it is, but I needed to buy breakfast first.”

“And I wanted to get coffee,” says Bev. “Work on a poster or two.”

“You’re in graphic design?” Eddie blurts, before he can stop himself. What the hell is he doing? He’s never been curious about a fan before.

But she lights up, and—something about her, and her friend Hanscom, is almost familiar. “Yeah,” she says. “I do freelance work these days, it’s a lot harder but I can do whatever I want.”

Pride bubbles up in Eddie’s chest. It’s strange, that he could feel so proud for a person he’s never met before. “That’s great,” he says, and means it. “Hey, uh, if you need any help with anything,” he adds, pulling out a pen and some paper from his pocket (because you _never know_ when someone on the street’s going to demand your time, when you’re a celebrity), “just call me and I’ll see if I can’t ring up a couple people.”

“Wow,” says Bev, as Eddie scrawls his number and signature on the paper. “What’s happening?”

“I have no idea,” says Hanscom, scratching the back of his head in confusion.

“Yeah, I don’t know either,” says Eddie, “but—I’ve got a good feeling about you, Miss, uh…”

“Beverly Marsh,” says Bev. “This is Ben Hanscom. If you ever need a historical consultant on something,” she winks, “he’s your man.”

Ben Hanscom blushes—full-on _blushes_ , like the compliment’s come out of left field for him. Suddenly Eddie can’t help but wonder if the two of them are even dating at all, he hasn’t seen any of the typical dating signs. Ben hasn’t put his hand on the small of Bev’s back, Bev hasn’t leaned against his side and touched his arm. “I just—teach American history, that’s all,” says Ben. “Bev, not that I want to break this up, but uh—”

“Shit, right,” says Bev, tucking the piece of paper into her pocket and companionably hooking her elbow into the crook of Ben’s arm. And there goes that blush again. God, he has it _bad_. “Come on, Ben. Let’s get you to school.” She nods to Eddie, and says, “Thanks, Mr. Kaspbrak!”

“It’s Eddie!” Eddie calls after them, but they’re already out the door and gone. He sighs, then walks out the door too, heading in the opposite direction of the subway station and letting his feet take him to Tompkins Square Bagels. He’s always been weirdly good at finding his way—back when he was younger, he’d never gotten lost on the way back home in his life. He still never gets lost, even in big, sprawling cities with surprises around every corner.

It’s when he’s buying Richie a bagel that he thinks, _It’s good to be in New York again, the set’s just not the same—oh, wait, am I supposed to talk about that?_

And he knows he’s got it.

He types out the monologue in Google Docs while waiting for Richie’s bagel and his own sandwich, something called the Stuto, with bacon and avocado and chicken salad. He does a couple of line edits here and there while eating, trying to think of a funny way to phrase key concepts, then walks back to the hotel with a bagel in hand. It’s a longer walk than he’d like, on account of all the dipshits who think they own the fucking sidewalk, which, _fuck you_ asshole you _don’t_ now fucking move your slow fucking _ass_ , and by the time he makes it back to the hotel it’s already a quarter past ten.

When he goes up to their room, Richie’s already got his boxers back on and his laptop open on his bed, pecking away at the keyboard with two fingers.

“How do you not get carpal tunnel?” Eddie marvels, watching him work.

Richie looks up from his laptop, then smiles, so bright and wide that it warms Eddie’s chest the same way a good dose of sunshine does. “Is that my bagel?” he asks. “And I dunno, just luck, I guess.”

“Yeah, it’s yours,” says Eddie, handing him the bagel and sitting next to him. It’s a little cramped for two fully-grown men, and Eddie kind of regrets not getting a single-bed suite instead, but Richie seems okay enough with this arrangement that he doesn’t mind as much. “Is that a script?”

“Yeah, I’m punching it up,” says Richie. He deletes a line of dialogue and types out a snappier version. “Y’know, sometimes I’m a script doctor on the side. I worked on some great scripts.” He grins. “Like _The Avengers_.”

“No fucking way,” says Eddie. “No fucking _way_.”

“Yes fucking way!” Richie laughs. “You think Joss Whedon could’ve come up with the best one-liners of that movie? That was either me or Downey going off-script! Whedon peaked in the nineties with Buffy and he’s just been downhill ever since.” Another line is snipped out of existence, replaced with a more emotional take.

“What else did you work on?” Eddie asks.

“Lot of rom-coms,” says Richie. “Some road trip movies, some buddy cop flicks.” He snaps his fingers and says, “ _Death at a Funeral_ and _Hop_ , I did those.”

“No _way_ , you fixed up _Hop_?” Eddie asks. “I played Hasselhoff’s PA on that! I think I had maybe the worst lines in the entire movie, so fucking thanks, man.”

“I could only do so much for your three scenes, Eds,” Richie says, with a dramatic sigh, and Eddie can’t help a chuckle at how he pouts. “Anyway, now you have all the _best_ lines on my show. I think I’ve more than made up for _Hop_.”

“Yeah, I guess I could forgive you,” says Eddie, kissing his temple. “Anyway, get out of bed and eat your bagel, because I have time before I have to be at 30 Rock and I’m planning to spend it,” he dips lower for this kiss, teeth scraping lightly along the side of Richie’s neck, “in bed, with you.”

“You’re incor-fuckin’-rigible,” says Richie, with a laugh, pushing at his shoulder. “ _Eat your bagel_ , he says, biting at my neck. The sheer disrespect for this bagel.” He turns his head to kiss Eddie’s cheek, and then takes a bite out of his bagel. In bed.

“Oh, shit, don’t eat in _bed_ ,” says Eddie, “you’ll get crumbs all over the sheets!”

“Never change, you neurotic little weirdo,” says Richie, impossibly fond as he saves his script and shuts his laptop. But he gets out of bed as Eddie huffily scrapes the crumbs off the sheets with his palm, so, really, Eddie wins here.

\--

So the thing about Stefon is—he’s kind of insane.

Yeah, okay, shitty thing to say about a relative, Richie knows, but Stefon’s just, he just, he’s a _lot_ to handle. Richie had thought marriage and kids and hitting the big three-oh would maybe mellow the guy out, and in some aspects it has. Stefon doesn’t flirt around as much as he used to, and he doesn’t drink as much, but he still goes to the weirdest clubs and he is _still_ kind of insane.

Case in point: this club. Richie hasn’t quite caught the name, but knowing Stefon it’s probably something like a duck quacking. Or Taste. Come to think of it, it’s probably Taste, he can see what looks like a three-hundred-pound Chinese baby spinning some sick beats, which is concerning as hell.

“Your drinks, Richie Tozier,” says Stefon, coming back from the bar with an iced tea and—something that looks electric blue with an eel at the bottom of the glass. Richie squints at it uneasily before taking his iced tea and sipping at it. “It’s so good to see you again!” Stefon says, sitting across from him with a bright grin. “Last Christmas was a good time, but it’s really no,” and he makes a sound like Donald Duck having a nightmare.

“Yeah, well, it’s Aunt Jolene, what the hell were you expecting?” Richie says, leaning back against the incredibly plush seat. Out on the dance floor is a contingent of German Smurfs grooving to god only knows what. “How’s Seth and the kids? I didn’t see them last Christmas.”

“Oh, Seth Meyers and the kids were having Hanukkah across town from the Christmas party, and now they’re doing very good,” says Stefon. “We have an arrangement now where if we both have to work, I can take Queenie Latifah Meyers with me to all the best, kid-friendly places in New York.”

“Like what?” Richie asks, unable to resist.

“Like,” Stefon says, before he leans forward with an intense glare and barks at Richie, then continues, as though he didn’t nearly make Richie spill his iced tea, “not the one started by club promoter and furry Catherine Fox, though, I mean the abandoned basketball lot between,” and he drops briefly into an Irish accent, “ _Off to Church, Mother_ and 27 Club Avenue.”

“Uh,” says Richie, a little thrown. “That’s—safe?”

Stefon gives Richie a withering look. “Of _course_ ,” he says. “There’s a blind Catholic lawyer with a thirst for justice and a mean right hook patrolling the premises, it’s _very_ safe for me, Queenie, and the four hobos and their talking dog sleeping under the basketball hoop, surrounded by stolen, slowly melting ice sculptures.” He pauses, then adds, “Although I do pass her off to the Duck Man when the clowns show up for their weekly mating dance.”

“Who the fuck is the Duck Man?” Richie asks, already regretting asking the moment the words are out of his mouth.

“He’s a guy who looks a little like Chris Pratt,” Stefon explains, “but with the gut Chris Pratt lost, longer hair and a duck sitting on his head. Very nice guy. Good with kids.” He scowls. “Much better than the clowns,” he says.

“Fuckin’ evil,” Richie agrees, relieved, because clowns just—are, okay. They just are.

“Oh, yes,” Stefon says. Then he brightens and says, “What brings you all the way out here to New York, anyway? I thought the LA writing life would keep you as its slave forever.”

Richie laughs, shakes his head. _I followed my boyfriend here,_ he doesn’t say, because even Stefon doesn’t know, and Stefon is as loudly queer as they come, right down to the Ed Hardy tie-dye T-shirt. Richie shouldn’t be _scared_ of telling him, either, but Stefon’s a chatty guy, and he doesn’t exactly keep secrets from Seth or his kids. And it only takes one slip. “I followed my friend here,” says Richie. “He’s hosting SNL, and it’s his first time. I know you and your husband used to be on Weekend Update all the time before he got that talk show—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Stefon says, with a nostalgic sigh. “Good times.”

“—so I figured I’d come be supportive of him _and_ get some tips out of you,” Richie finishes. “My friend’s an anxious guy, and you were pretty fucking anxious a couple of times on the show, right? So I figured, why not, right?”

“Tell him to smoke some weed before he goes on air,” says Stefon, almost instantly. “That was very helpful for me, personally.”

“Yeah, no,” says Richie. “Weed is—I think he’d die first before he put anything that could fuck with his perception into his body, because—let’s just say he’s been through some shit.”

“Ohhh, I get it,” says Stefon, nodding and taking a sip of his drink. “Meditation, maybe?”

The idea of Eddie _meditating_ is just—so impossible that Stefon’s innocuous line is like a punch in the gut. Richie doubles over laughing, gripping the edge of the table to steady himself, because Eddie is the _least_ likely person to try meditation, he knows that, deep in his bones. “I—I think,” Richie gasps out between fits of giggling, “he’d explode out of built-up rage if he had to _meditate_.”

“No weed, no drugs, no meditation, okay,” says Stefon, unruffled. That’s what Richie likes about his cousin. He’s seen so much wild shit going to all these crazy clubs that almost nothing can bother him anymore. “You should take him to Your Mother and I Are Separating.”

“I don’t know where that is,” says Richie, “and, Steffy, if I bring him to any of your clubs I think either he’d blow a gasket or start a fight with the first person who mistakes him for a human anything.”

“Oh, so he’s _short,_ ” says Stefon. “That cuts out...half the clubs I know.” His free hand, fidgety as always, presses against his cheek as he purses his lips, as if thinking it over. “I did jerk off before I went on the show a couple of times—”

“That’s some balls,” says Richie, impressed.

“Oh, thank you,” says Stefon, “but that was because I was _very_ in love with Seth Meyers and he had, unfortunately at the time, a serious girlfriend. Poor Stefon had to find _some_ release.” He pouts at the memory, and says, free hand beckoning Richie to join in, “ _Awww._ ”

“Aw,” says Richie, sipping at his iced tea. “Is that your big advice? Jerk off before the show, you’ll be fine?”

“Worked for me,” Stefon chirps. “The other option’s a Xanax, but that might just knock him out to sleep, and a sleepy host is apparently not a very good host.” He puts his glass down, then puts his hands against his mouth, eyes wandering upward to the ceiling. “Of course there’s orgasms after the show,” he says, his tone distant and fond like he’s recalling something he likes _very much_.

“That,” says Richie, “is too much information on your sex life with Seth, holy _shit_.”

Stefon’s hands dart back down so he can stick his tongue out at Richie. “You and my Seth Meyers back in the day are the _same_ ,” he huffs. “Stefon is doing his best!”

“Stefon’s making me want to bleach my fucking brain,” Richie grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose, and Stefon gives a theatrically offended gasp. “We’re too closely related for me to think about you having _sex_ ,” Richie explains. “But—y’know what? I might keep some of that in mind. Just in case.”

“Good, good, good,” Stefon says. “Anyway, it’ll take time, but I’m sure Eddie Kaspbrak’s going to make it through just fine.”

Richie, who’d raised his glass back to his lips to drain the last of the iced tea, nearly spits his drink back into the glass out of shock. “How did you know it was Eddie I was talking about?” he asks, before his brain catches up with his dumb mouth and says _hey fuckhead, of course he’d know, they didn’t exactly keep it a secret Eddie was coming on._

Anyone else would’ve probably given _it’s on Twitter,_ as an answer, but it’s Stefon. He says, “Oh, Drooly-Lips Jackson told me. He has an Instagram now, and it’s so _cute_ , you should follow him.”

“The—underage UFC fighter told you,” says Richie, flatly.

“Mm-hmm,” says Stefon.

Honestly, it’s par for the course, when it comes to the guy. So Richie lets it slide, and says, “I’m never gonna get over the fact that they let a toddler fight. Or that the kid _won_ his fights.”

“It’s his fists,” says Stefon. “Once you’ve had two empanadas hammer you repeatedly in the groin, you tend to stay down.” He drains the rest of his drink in one go, and says, “You know what we should go to next?”

“Uh, no,” says Richie. “But I was thinking, maybe the Statue of Liberty? Just so I can cross that off my bucket list.”

“Yes yes yes,” says Stefon. “And then I can take you to _Scampi_. You will _love it_ there.”

\--

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: a selfie of Eddie at the entrance of the Comcast Building, at a time so late in the afternoon that it’s edging towards dusk. Only the top of Eddie’s head from the comically wide eyes up can be seen, and the rest of the picture is taken up by the entrance.]  
 **eddie.kaspbrak1976** holy shit. #saturdaynightlive #30rock #firsttimehosting #benicetothenewmeat #theywerenicetothenewmeat #fivetimersoneday

\--

**EDDIE KASPBRAK ON SNL IN 4 DAYS** _@hansolololol_  
if he uploads a picture with Kate McKinnon I’m gonna implode I L O V E Kate she is the BEST

**EDDIE KASPBRAK ON SNL IN 4 DAYS**  
 _@hansolololol_  
HE JUST UPLOADED A PICTURE WITH KATE I’M REALLY GONANA DKGNKSBDKD

\--

When Eddie’s finally let out of the Comcast building, and taken the requisite selfie, the first thing he does is go scrounge up some food. Because it’s 30 Rock and no one would be enough of a fool to pass up the prime real estate and capitalize on both tourism and hungry actors and writers at 3 AM, Eddie finds a sandwich shop easily enough and buys himself a turkey club sandwich. All-natural, of course, and thank fucking god for that.

He texts Richie to meet him on one of the benches scattered around the plaza, and then parks his ass there and takes a couple pictures: of his half-eaten sandwich and the landmarks around him. Then he sends them off, and waits.

Five minutes later, he gets a text that reads, _eta 10 mins, pls don’t freak out when you see what i’m wearing._ Which is, uh, concerning, to say the least. What the fuck would Richie be wearing that would raise alarms for Eddie?

An Ed Hardy T-shirt, it turns out, when Richie finally stumbles into view. There’s a Statue of Liberty hat perched jauntily on top of his head, and a dazed look in his eye. Eddie stands up immediately to rush to his side, because _what in the fuck happened to him_ —

“What the fuck happened to you?” Eddie asks.

“Stefon took me to one of his clubs,” says Richie, and oh, okay, he doesn’t look or sound drunk, just kind of shocked. “Well. A lot of his clubs, actually.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Also, we’re both banned from the Statue of Liberty now, but _I’m_ not the one who did anything, it’s just that for some weird-ass fucking reason, nobody can fucking tell us apart.”

Eddie says, “So, uh, what’s with the shirt?”

“Oh, he had to get away fast,” says Richie, “so we swapped shirts and I led security on a wild goose chase.” He squints down at the shirt, the wild, colorful patterns printed on it, and says, “I’m never giving this back. Fuck what he says about this being his favorite party shirt, he’s probably got five others like it.”

“Seems to me like you fucking did something to get banned, all right,” says Eddie. “What were you guys even doing?”

“Hanging out at this illegally-parked club behind the Statue of Liberty,” says Richie. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What,” says Eddie, “the _fuck._ ”

“Yeah, it’s why I don’t hang out with Stefon alone that much,” says Richie. “He’s a great guy, don’t get me wrong! But when you head out with him it always ends in someone getting arrested _at least_.” He shakes his head, brushing his hand through his hair, and it’s only now that Eddie spots the glitter still lingering in Richie’s hair. “Jesus fucking Christ, this glitter is going to be hell to wash out,” Richie complains. “Anyway, forget about that, how was your day?”

“Fucking _wild_ ,” says Eddie. “Or at least it was until you got yourself banned from _the Statue of Liberty_. Then it’s just kinda wild.” He nods to the Comcast Building and says, “Lorne Michaels thinks my monologue is _great_. He said it needed a little more punching up, but otherwise it was _good_.”

“Knew it,” says Richie, proudly. His hand moves as if to take Eddie’s, but changes direction at the last minute and pats his shoulder instead, awkwardly. Eddie glances around, and yeah, this is a public place, isn’t it. “Take me back to the hotel, Eds.”

“Of course I’m gonna,” says Eddie. “You need a fucking shower.”

\--

It’s only after Richie’s showered and they’ve both had dinner that they shuck their clothes off, kissing madly all the while, and fall into bed together. They wrestle playfully, for a little while, like two kids roughhousing for kicks, but then Eddie flips Richie over onto his back and straddles his thighs, pinning his wrists above his head.

And then Richie makes a _noise_. A helpless little whine escapes him, and a deep red flush spreads over his face and down his chest. His eyes, usually blue, are near-black when he looks up at Eddie, and for a moment there’s nothing between them but the sound of their breathing.

“Huh,” says Eddie, at last, not quite trusting his own voice not to crack at the sight of Richie under him, naked and spread out so invitingly. “Rich?”

“Yeah?” Richie says, his voice soft. Still somehow loud, though, in the silence of their hotel room.

“I’m going to try something,” says Eddie. “Just, uh, let me know, okay? If it’s any good or not.”

“Eddie, it’s _you_ ,” says Richie. “Of course it’ll be fucking amazing.”

That’s a lot of faith that Eddie doesn’t always know what to do with. That’s the thing about Richie, really. He _believes_ in Eddie, the way his mother and Myra never really did. He doesn’t look at him and see someone fragile who has to be protected from the world and from the dangers out there, someone who’s sick at heart. He looks at him and sees someone who could be _more_ than what he is now, and that’s—that’s a heady thing, it turns out.

And Eddie loves him. Believes in him, too.

He brushes some of the hair out of Richie’s face. “Still,” he says, anxiously. He doesn’t want to break that trust, or let down that faith.

“I’ll let you know,” Richie promises. “How do you want me?”

“Just like this,” says Eddie, and Richie shudders under him. “Can you do me a favor, Rich? Keep your hands like this for me?”

Richie nods, eyes wide. When Eddie lets go, his hands twitch, but the fingers of his left hand curl around his right wrist.

“You’re doing good,” Eddie murmurs in his ear, and Richie makes a strange, desperate little noise. His chest rises, falls, as Eddie gets off him to put their lube in easier reach. “I like this on you, y’know? You look really good like this.”

Richie laughs, a little, says, “Flattery will get you everywhere, Eddie my love.”

“I’m not just flattering you, asshole,” says Eddie, fondly, pressing his body back to Richie’s, fingers skimming lightly over the sides of his torso. Richie shivers at his touch, and god, he does look good like this. Eddie wonders if anyone else has ever seen Richie like this, hopes to god they treated him so well, is maybe just a little bit jealous someone else saw this before he did. “I mean it. I’m fucking jealous somebody else saw this before I ever laid eyes on you.”

“If I knew you were coming into my life,” Richie says, “I woulda saved it up for you.” He moves his hips just a little, and Eddie bites back a moan when he feels Richie’s very hard cock brushing up against his. “You gonna waste any more time or what?”

“You shush,” says Eddie. “I’m celebrating here.” He presses a kiss to Richie’s hands, to his wrists.

“So fucking celebrate faster and unwrap me,” says Richie, his voice a little higher-pitched than normal.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Eddie says, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Rich, I’m gonna take my time. Savor it.” Then he moves to kiss him, hot and wet, and nibbles lightly on Richie’s lower lip before pulling away. “Just lie back and relax,” he says, then peppers a line of kisses along Richie’s stubbled jawline.

Then down, to the soft flesh of his throat, yielded up just for Eddie. He scrapes his teeth lightly over Richie’s Adam’s apple, _feels_ Richie’s moan against his lips more than he hears it. He loves the sound of Richie’s voice, and how it shifts accents and octaves and timbres like a chameleon changes color. He loves the sound of it now, wrecked and desperate, saying, “I’ve created a monster. A sexy, sexy monster.”

Eddie bites down on his collarbone for that, just a little warning nip, and Richie bucks under him. “Dick,” says Eddie, fondly, and tweaks a nipple to another groan and helpless shift of hips. “I’ll get there, don’t worry. And give yourself some credit.” He peppers kisses along Richie’s shoulders, god, they’re so broad, straining with the effort to stay still and keep his hands up. “You’re fucking hot too.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” says Richie, although whether that’s because of the compliment or because Eddie’s drifted down from his shoulders to lick at his nipples is anybody’s guess. Eddie himself is utterly fucking hard, and every accidental brush of either fabric or skin on his dick is bound to drive him insane, but he said he was going to take his time and god fucking damn it he means it.

Richie shudders and downright whimpers at every lick, every bite, every time Eddie pulls a bit of skin between his teeth and sucks hard enough to leave a bruise. Fucking moans when Eddie pins his hips down, fingers leaving bruises onto his skin. Down, down, down, Eddie goes—chest, soft stomach, faint dusting of hair down from the navel. He sits back once he gets to Richie’s dick, leaking precome and stiff as a flagpole.

“Later,” he says, giving it a pat.

“ _A sexy fucking monster_ ,” Richie repeats, his voice strained. “What’re you—”

“Shh,” says Eddie, and kisses down his legs to his knees, his ankles, his own hand idly jerking himself, just enough for him to stay hard. Doesn’t kiss his feet, because Eddie has his limits, but he scoots back (his own feet now dangling off the edge of the bed) and gives them a good rub-down.

“Is this a sexy foot massage?” Richie says. “Is that’s what’s happening?”

“Listen, I love you, every bit of you,” says Eddie, “but I am not putting my mouth on your feet. I have my limits. I’ve smelled your fucking gross socks.” He holds his hands up. “So, compromise. Are you complaining about the massage or—”

“I’ve smelled _your_ fucking gross socks,” Richie says, which is such a lame comeback that Eddie rolls his eyes, but when Eddie presses his thumb to the sole of his foot, Richie makes a delightedly surprised noise and throws his head back. “I’ll— _ohhh_ , god, Eddie—I’ll forgive you for not sucking my toes if you just keep doing that— _god_ , that feels good. Been walking all fuckin’ day.”

“You poor bastard,” says Eddie. “Walked around all day and got banned from the Statue of Liberty _and_ had to swap shirts with your cousin.”

“And now I might develop a foot fetish,” Richie says.

“What a fuckin’ tragedy,” Eddie drawls. Then he moves back up till they’re eye-to-eye, and puts his hand on Richie’s leaking cock.

Richie’s hips jackknife off the bed, thrusting upward into his hand. “ _Eddie_ ,” says Richie, pleading now.

“How do you want this?” Eddie asks him. “Hands, mouth, fingers or cock? ‘Cause I’m happy any way, but you’ve gotta tell me what you want.”

“Fuck,” says Richie, like he’s blown a circuit or something. “God, I dunno—we brought the lube all this way, might as well.”

“Might as well what?” Eddie asks.

“Oh my _god_ ,” says Richie. “ _Fuck me_.”

Eddie laughs, then gets down to business, grabbing the bottle and popping it open. Maybe he applies a little more lube than strictly necessary, but better safe than sorry, and warms it for a couple of minutes, idly skimming over Richie’s thighs, torso, whatever’s in reach besides his cock. He circles Richie’s asshole with his index finger for a bit, just tease him, then eases it in past the rim.

Here’s where Richie’s different from Eddie: he fucking _moans_ just having a finger in his ass.

“Do you get like this when you’re having a prostate exam?” Eddie asks, working him open slowly, pinning him down with a hand and his weight alone. Eddie’s own cock is fucking leaking now too, dripping over Richie’s stomach, and god that’s a mess and he can’t quite bring himself to care that much about it.

“Nope,” gasps Richie, as Eddie slips another finger inside of him, scissoring him open, watching him writhe under him. “Just— _oh fuck hnghyes_ —just when the doctor’s as hot as you.” Somehow he still has enough brain cells left over to unsubtly wink at Eddie. “And baby, nobody’s as hot as you.”

“Maybe you,” says Eddie, and grins when he sees that red flush again, crooks his fingers just so. Another one, and Richie’s hips are rolling back and forth, trying to fuck himself down on Eddie’s fingers alone. With his hands up over his head, there’s not much he can do to get Eddie to speed it up other than beg, and Eddie isn’t easing himself in until he’s sure Richie’s not going to get hurt. Which means loosening up, really loosening him up, ‘til his hole’s gaping open when Eddie finally slips his fingers out and wipes them off on Richie’s thigh. Just to tease, though, he plays a little with Richie’s balls, first, fingers gently brushing over them.

“Oh my god,” says Richie, “this is _torture_. This is cock and ball torture, isn’t it? Eddie, you kinky _fuck._ ”

“If you think this is torture already,” says Eddie, “you’re going to faint the second you step into a sex shop and see what they actually use for that shit.”

“You’ve never walked into a sex shop in your _life_ ,” says Richie. Then he says, “Eddie, I swear to god, you keep playing with them like that I’ll probably shoot off before you actually fuck me.”

“Who says that’s not what I’m going for?” Eddie says, and Richie makes a funny little noise in the back of his throat, like he hasn’t actually considered that. But he lets up, because it’s not actually what he’s going for, and lines up his cock and sinks in.

They both moan, then. Or, well, Eddie moans. Richie gasps, and squirms a little, hands twitching over his head like he wants so, so badly to touch him. He probably does.

“Please,” Richie begs, which confirms Eddie’s suspicions. “Please, Eddie, let me—”

“Touch me, yeah, Rich, you can touch me,” Eddie says, and Richie obliges him, hands flying to clutch on to Eddie’s back as Eddie fucks him, slow and sweet. God, Richie feels so fucking _good_ like this—ass clenching around his cock, and inside just warm, velvety heat, welcoming him in on every thrust. Richie is clearly out of words, moaning and writhing under him, his cock leaking precome messily over his stomach. Every time Eddie angles a thrust just right, it shocks breathless noises out of Richie’s throat, _ah, ah, ah, please_.

He leans down to kiss him, swallow the pleas in his mouth. That, perhaps, is what does it for Richie, who arches his back and moans into the kiss as he comes.

Eddie slips out then, before Richie’s hand drifts lazily towards Eddie’s dick. “Let me,” says Richie, and what else can Eddie do but surrender? A few strokes of Richie’s hands and he’s fucking done for, coming with a cry muffled into Richie’s shoulder.

Then he collapses into bed, sweaty and sticky.

“God,” he says, dazed. He looks over at Richie, who’s staring up at the ceiling with a similarly gobsmacked look on his face, and says, “Was it okay?”

“Was it _okay_ ,” Richie echoes, incredulous. “I think that was the hottest, sexiest thing to have ever happened to me, and now I’m ruined for all other sex.” He pauses, then laughs. “If this is what you’re like before the monologue, I’m not gonna be able to fucking _walk_ on Sunday.”

“I’ll be merciful,” Eddie promises.

“Who said anything about fucking mercy?” Richie says.

\--

**Eddie Kaspbrak Monologue - SNL**   
_Saturday Night Live_

Host Eddie Kaspbrak can’t talk about his new show.

**[VIDEO TRANSCRIPT]**

**SNL ANNOUNCER** : Ladies and gentlemen, Eddie Kaspbrak!

[Eddie emerges from the doors of the SNL set to great applause, dressed in a navy blue blazer, a white shirt, and slim-fitting trousers. He waves at the audience, grinning brightly as they cheer for him, then drops his hands as the cheers subside.]

**EDDIE KASPBRAK:**

Thank you! Thank you so much. Hi.

Yeah, I’m as surprised as you that I’m up here. [audience laughter] As some of you might know, my new show _Night Shift_ is coming out in March, [audience cheers] and, uh, I was actually the _second_ choice from the cast for hosting SNL. Max Sinclair couldn’t make it, sadly. She’s celebrating her wedding anniversary, and because apparently there _are_ still people who value their family and spouses over their careers, she stuck me with hosting duty.

It means I win. She gets to celebrate over a decade of a happy, blissful marriage with her spouse who loves and supports her, and _I_ get to host SNL! [He weakly pumps his fist into the air, to audience snickers.] Yay.

Actually, there’s this story I wanna tell you guys from the set, about me and Max and this one time we were screwing around with the stunt crew. So there we were, playing around with a fake knife—

[A red dot appears dead-center in the middle of Eddie’s chest.]

Uh. Okay. Don’t—Don’t tell that story because it’s got spoilers in it, I got it.

[Audience gives a loud “awww” after the red dot flickers off. Eddie sighs.]

My friend Richie talked about this once, doing a bit—he’s the writer of the show, and sometimes he does standup at small venues—but we signed NDAs when we got on the show. So we’re not allowed to say a word about the set, the episodes, _anything_ that could possibly be a spoiler before the episodes drop onto Netflix, so that’ll make the press tour interesting, to say the least. [audience laughter] I can’t talk about my new show on SNL! That’s like telling me I can’t say the F-word! I mean, I can do it, but it’ll be so _fudging_ hard. Especially since, uh, hold on a second.

[Eddie starts pulling index cards out of his pockets, and makes a show of flipping through them.]

That’s a spoiler, that’s a spoiler, that’s in the first episode but it counts as a spoiler, that’s a spoiler, oh, hey, here’s a story about the time Molly Widogast and I accidentally ate someone’s pot brownies on set! Can I talk about that in my SNL monologue? [The red dot appears on Eddie’s shirt again. He rolls his eyes upwards.] Okay, fine. [The red dot flickers off again.]

You guys, you have no idea how hard it’s been for me to _not talk_ about it. If you’ve ever read a gossip rag during my divorce you probably have a better idea than most. [audience laughter] I get that spoilers are a plague and someone who deliberately tells people how a thing ends just to spoil their fun is a grade-A asshole, but I just want to talk to someone about it! Not even about the story, just—the most embarrassing things that happened on set, I want to completely and utterly humiliate my costars by talking about the lines they screwed up, the stunts they goofed up on, the emotional scenes they trashed by corpsing too hard, the pranks we pulled on each other, and I wanna do it on national TV. They’d do the same to me.

But apparently that all counts as spoilers, so I’ve got to shut my mouth. Which is a bummer for this monologue, because I’ve been working on a good one. A _great_ one. Lorne Michaels even said it was the best monologue he had ever heard from a guest star in all the time he spent producing this show. [Peals of laughter ring out from the audience. Eddie grins.] Okay, no he didn’t, but I’m pretty sure he would have if he’d heard it. But because I signed an NDA, I can’t tell anyone anything, except for—hold on, I think I wrote it down somewhere in here…

[He starts rifling through his notecards again.]

Spoiler, spoiler, grocery list, reminder list—crap, I have to talk to the PR team about that blind item in EW, forgot about that—spoiler, spoiler, here it is! [He pulls the notecard out, and reads:] It’s great to be back in New York! [audience cheers. Eddie intermittently looks down from the notecard, pretending to read off it.] The real New York, not a fictional New York. Highly disappointed to find that over the years since I left it, NYC has not in fact suddenly become populated with vampires, ghosts, and werewolves.

[The red dot appears again over Eddie’s chest. The audience starts laughing like loons, as Eddie looks down, panics, and starts stuffing his notecards, with shaky hands, back into his jacket, spilling a couple out of feigned fear.]

Jesus! Okay, okay, okay! I’ll stop _talking_! Enjoy the show!

[Audience applauds as Eddie scampers offstage.]

\--

**Max**

_**Today** 12:24 AM_  
okay, first of all, jealous?  
second of all, did you actually get someone to point a laser pointer at you???

yeah, Richie

he was delighted when I asked him.

wait  
you’re with Richie Tozier in New York?  
like, right now?

he’s one of my best friends

of course I asked him to come out here

\--

**Molly**

_**Today** 12:41 AM_

they’re in New York together

twenty bucks they’re f u c k i n g

well not right now the shows ongoing  
but like  
def afterwards 


	10. 2016 - IV.

“No, it’s up up down down _then_ smash the button—”

“I’m _trying!_ ” hisses Eddie. It’s the first weekend of their first year of high school, and there’s a boy beside him with floppy hair and giant coke bottle glasses magnifying his eyes, trying to show him how to play a game. _Street Fighter_ , proclaims the letters painted over their heads, and all around them are other children playing ancient video games. But Eddie only has eyes for this boy, and for this game, so the rest are blurred and indistinct, out of focus in a photograph zoomed in on the two of them.

“You’re smashing the button _while_ you’re doing it,” the boy explains. “Here, just let me.” And his hands rest on Eddie’s, and for a moment Eddie forgets to breathe.

Eddie turns to look at the boy, turns to say his name, but his tongue is slow as saltwater taffy and the boy’s face blurs, and—

—and instead of an arcade, instead of the boy’s hands over his, he stands in an old, old house, arm in a cast, sneakers filling with sewer water. There’s a flashlight in his hand and his nostrils are burning from the smell of puke and shit and piss and blood and death and decay. So much decay. So many bodies floating above him. Kids’ bodies.

He freezes in place when he looks up. There are _so many_ , and they all have chunks just torn out of them. Some are missing their faces. Some are missing huge pieces of their stomach, their rotting insides exposed to the air. One kid floats slowly past him, dead eyes glazed over with terror, and his arm is gone. Another is missing her entire lower half. Another doesn’t have a _head_ , or much flesh left.

What is he doing down here, in this place where children die? What is he _doing_?

“ _Eddie-bear!_ ” someone calls, frantically. His mother, Eddie realizes, and he backs up from the direction the voice went. He can’t go back to her. He won’t. He _won’t._ He turns on his heel, gagging at the sound of his shoes squelching in the sewer water, and breaks into a run the other way, ducking into a tunnel. He slows his run when he realizes the water’s coming up to his knees, then his waist, then his chest.

“Eddie?” someone else calls. Eddie knows that voice. Would know it anywhere, even though it sounds so young and frightened.

“Richie!” he calls. “Richie, where the fuck are you?”

“I don’t fucking know!” Richie calls back. “Where are you? I can’t—Eddie, I can’t see you!” His voice breaks, panic leaking through. “Oh god oh god _oh fucking god_ —”

“You don’t have to!” Eddie shouts back. “Just follow my voice!” He racks his brain for a memory, and says, “Hey, hey—Richie, remember when you took me to see that stupid fucking movie, the one you called the worst one ever?”

He hears the sound of a small body in the water, feet splashing up a storm. “Yeah, and you called me a dork for quoting all the lines,” says Richie. “And you caught a football!”

“I caught a football!” Eddie agrees, wading towards where he can hear Richie’s voice: further into the tunnel and to the right, where a drain pipe is waiting. Yes, he remembers, the screening had been full of other fans, dressed up as the characters and carrying props relevant to the movie with them like footballs. Richie didn’t have the hair for Tommy himself and he didn’t want to buy a wig, so he’d just gone with Mark, instead. Eddie had not gone in costume. “And you laughed when they got to the rooftop scene.”

“It was such a fake rooftop!” Richie says. “Okay, I found a drain pipe, I’m gonna—I’m gonna pull myself up. Remember, you got so pissed about the script, and you were ranting about how the actors deserved so many awards for putting up with this shit?”

“It didn’t make a single lick of sense!” Eddie says. “It really didn’t! There wasn’t any emotional payoff, there wasn’t an arc, I don’t even know what kind of theme this guy was going for, _which fucking room was he trying to reference in the title_ —”

“The room of loneliness!” Richie says. “The room of, uh, being alone in a crowd? I don’t know, I’d say he was high when he wrote the script but he’s just _like that_ when I met him.”

“You mean he’s that way all the fucking time?” Eddie asks, wading in deeper. “Jesus, that’s exhausting. How’d you end up down here, anyway?”

“I—I don’t remember,” says Richie. “Eddie? Eddie, where are you?”

“I’m coming!” Eddie calls, trying to squash down the panic as the water level rises to his chest. Richie’s there. He said he would be. One step, then another, then another, and it’s up to his shoulders and he has to hold up his cast so it doesn’t get all dirty. But he can see the drain pipe, and he can see Richie, poking his head out of it, worried eyes behind coke bottle glasses.

He looks young. Eddie’d peg him at thirteen or so, all awkward angles, limbs too long for his body, blue eyes magnified by his glasses. And what glasses they are! Fucking _huge_ —

Something splashes behind him.

“Oh, fuck,” says Eddie. He starts wading faster, only to find that the water’s beginning to come up to his neck now. Is it just him, or is the floor starting to crumble under him? Is it just him or is someone giggling in the distance? “Rich, _Richie_ —”

“Oh, shit,” says Richie, “I’m coming!”

“No, don’t, stay right the fuck there!” Eddie snaps. Something is swimming towards them, an evil thing with—with teeth, _sharp_ teeth, so many rows of teeth, _all the better to eat you with, Eddie my dear_ —

“Fuck, no!” Richie snaps, and jumps back into the water. He swims frantically towards Eddie, who’s ineffectually trying to paddle towards the drain pipe, the way out, the way to safety. “I’m not gonna let you get taken! I saw those fucking kids, I know what—what this thing _does_ —”

“It’ll take _you_ ,” Eddie cries, desperately, “Richie, please, you have to get up there, please—”

“I’m not fucking leaving you,” says Richie, grabbing hold of his hands, “not now, not ever.”

Something cackles through the water, clear as a bell even though it’s under the water and so, so near, and Eddie’s heart plummets like a stone into his stomach. “You have to,” he says.

“ _Not fucking happening_ ,” says Richie. “Just—hold on to me, okay, Eds? Hold on.”

And what else can Eddie do but follow? He takes hold of Richie’s hand and lets him pull him to the drain pipe, then lets him haul him up, up, up—

Something dark and slimy curls its wet, dirty fingers around Eddie’s leg. “ _Where are you going, Eddie-bear?_ ” it whispers, in the voice of his mother. “ _Don’t go playing with dirty little boys like him. He’ll only make you sicker._ ”

Richie flinches, eyes wide and horrified. “No,” he whispers, “no, no—”

Eddie kicks, angrily, at the thing that’s curled around his leg. It’s not a human _hand_ , he knows that much, but it has claws and it’s digging into his flesh and oh god it _hurts it hurts it hurts_ , but he grits his teeth and kicks again, harder this time, with a snarl: “Let me fucking _go_ , you piece of shit!”

Richie seems to shake off the shock, jaw setting stubbornly. “Here, come on, wrap your arms around me,” he says, scooting closer to wrap his arms around Eddie, “oh god, oh my fucking god—”

The claws dig in deeper as Eddie wraps his arms around Richie, clinging onto the back of his grimy Hawaiian shirt. Eddie howls, in both pain and fury, and kicks much harder. “I said _let me fucking go!_ ” he shrieks, and slams the sole of his white sneaker into something very solid that gives a very satisfying cracking noise.

The thing gives way, and Richie hauls Eddie up into the drain pipe, into safety. “Oh, fuck,” says Richie, looking horrified, “Eddie, your leg—”

Yeah, Eddie doesn’t want to look at his leg either. “I’m fine,” he says. “It’s okay. This isn’t real, but we have to get out of here before it _becomes_ real.” Because that pain had felt real, like a shock to the system, like a break in the arm. “Come on, I know the way out—”

“ _Why do you hurt me like this?_ ” his mother’s voice calls, through the dark, and Eddie flinches, grabs hold of Richie. God, that is a horrifyingly good impersonation of his long-dead mother. “ _I just want to protect you, Eddie-bear! I just want to keep you safe! Eat you up to keep you safe!_ ”

“That is so fucked-up,” says Richie.

“I’m well fucking aware,” says Eddie, tugging Richie along. “Come on, come on—”

“ _Hey, fairy,_ ” comes a new voice, a young voice, a bully’s loud and angry and hateful snarl, “ _when are you coming back? I haven’t finished with you yet! I’ll grind your fucking glasses into your eyes, bitch!_ ”

Richie freezes, his eyes wide.

“ _ **you’ll come home soon, losers,**_ ” says another voice, and this one—this one is something else. This one scrapes the flat of a cold knife down Eddie’s spine, a promise of worse things to come. “ ** _come home, richie. come home, eddie. come home, come play with your momma, with your old friend georgie, with all the other losers. come home, and i’ll show you how to FLOAT._** ” Behind them, the metal of the drain pipe begins to creak. Giggles erupt from the creature, as it drags its heavy weight up from the water, slowly but surely.

Richie looks at Eddie. Eddie looks at Richie. They grip each other’s hands tight, refusing to look back at the thing that’s emerging from the waters.

They run, they run and run, run with their shoes squelching in the water and with the thing right behind them and with their hands tightly holding on to each other, run like the howling winds of a blizzard in New York and a thunderstorm in LA, run and their shoes eat up the miles and—

—Eddie wakes up, with a gasp. Surprisingly, right next to him, gripping onto him so tightly Eddie’s surprised nothing’s broken, so does Richie.

“Fuck,” says Richie.

“Yeah,” says Eddie, pushing a hand through his sweaty hair. He throws the covers back and looks down at his legs, both perfectly intact, and breathes a sigh of relief. Something had clawed up his leg in the dream, and he’d been half-frightened on waking up that the claw had been _real_. It had sure felt real in the dream, but then lots of things feel real in dreams, don’t they. “Shit. Did I wake you?”

“No,” says Richie. “Did I wake _you?_ ”

“No,” Eddie confirms, relaxing. “Had a nightmare too, huh?”

“Yeah, a really fucked-up one,” says Richie, sitting up. He pulls out one of the bedside drawers, as if looking for something, then pauses and pushes it back in. “Right,” he says, frowning. “You know, it’s weird, but I thought—for a minute I thought I had a pack of cigarettes in here.”

“Must be the dream,” says Eddie. Then, struck by a bolt of inspiration, he asks, “You wanna talk about it?”

Richie hesitates a moment, fingers twitching on his kneecap. “It’s just a dream, Eds,” he says, at last. “Okay, it’s a shitty, fucked-up nightmare with dead bodies and sewers, but I’ve read enough shit that I’m not surprised some of it got embedded into my subconscious.” He smiles, but in the dim lamplight and with the shadows playing across his face, it looks almost ghastly. “Let’s just go back to sleep,” he says.

Eddie takes hold of his hand, and says, “You know you can tell me, right?” Because that nightmare—that one had been different from all the ones before. That one they’d _shared_ , somehow, impossible as it sounds, because Eddie hadn’t known Richie had ever met Tommy Wiseau until Richie said so in the dream. “You don’t have to stuff it all down,” Eddie says now. “We’re in a relationship, we’re a fucking team. You said so yourself, man, _together_.”

“I’m not stuffing anything down,” says Richie. “It’s just a dream! That’s all there is.” He leans in close and presses a wet smack to Eddie’s temple. “I’m going back to sleep,” he says. “You should too. We’re going sightseeing tomorrow before flying back, you don’t wanna miss out on anything in your incredibly thorough itinerary.” He lies back down, and turns over again.

Eddie sighs, the details of the dream beginning to fade from memory. It’s still dark out, and they do have to get up bright and early tomorrow, if Eddie wants to start their last day in New York off right. “Fine,” he says, and lies down beside Richie, throwing an arm over his torso, trying not to think about sewers, or dead bodies with chunks missing, or the feeling of something trying to tear his leg out of its socket.

When he sleeps this time, it’s a dreamless sleep.

\--

Central Park has something of a reputation for weird shit. This, Richie supposes, probably explains why no one passing by even bothers to look askance at the guy on an actual _unicycle_ playing the fiddle.

“What in the fuck,” he says.

“They really downgraded from when I was last here,” says Eddie, as he and Richie watch the performance. A few people have gathered to gawk at the guy’s balancing act, and there’s already some loose change in his little tin, but there’s not the huge crowd that he would’ve drawn back in LA. New Yorkers are stone fucking cold, apparently. “See that guy? Would’ve been in a Renaissance costume just to really catch people’s eyes.”

“Seriously?” Richie asks. God, yeah, sometimes he forgets, once upon a time, Eddie used to be a New Yorker too. He supposes Eddie never really lost that tolerance for strange shit on the street that New Yorkers build up, or that singular rage when someone is In The Way that only New Yorkers can summon.

“Yeah,” says Eddie. “Because—look, unicycling fiddler? Already been done, five times over, you have to spice up your shtick more if you want to stand out from the crowd.”

“Of unicycling fiddlers,” says Richie, his voice flat.

“Yeah, just isn’t the same in LA,” says Eddie, with a nostalgic sigh. He grabs hold of Richie’s elbow and says, “Come on, the walk’s this way, it’s lined with statues of the most famous writers of all time.”

“Babe, I already have a pedestal there, you don’t have to bring me there to look at my own face,” says Richie, jokingly.

“Who says I’m there to look at your face?” Eddie says. “I have a Sharpie, I’m gonna vandalize the shit out of your statue.”

“If you must,” says Richie, “could you write down just how big my dick is?”

“Absolutely not,” says Eddie, his tone brooking no arguments as he pulls Richie along. “That’s for me to know and everyone else to guess at.”

Richie can fucking _feel_ his cheeks beginning to burn. Okay, chalk another one up for things Richie Tozier did not know he was into until Eddie came along: being _very thoroughly_ claimed by someone. It’s the sort of commitment that he would’ve shied away from a year ago, but Eddie is—Eddie is different, somehow. When Eddie says it, Richie knows it to be true.

“Ooh, you’re hot when you get territorial,” he says. “You gonna piss in a ring around me to mark me as your territory?”

“Ew,” says Eddie, making a face. “I’m not a fucking animal, Rich, so you’ll have to settle for a ring of hickeys.”

Richie gapes at him for a full minute as Eddie slows their fast pace and puts his arm around Richie’s elbow. God, that was unexpectedly _smooth_. Richie’s still a little off-course from just how smooth it was, really, so for a moment he lets his eyes linger on Eddie, just a little too long for it to be strictly platonic. “Sounds like a good consolation prize,” he murmurs.

They set off on the walk together, not quite holding hands but not quite trying to put distance in between them either. It’s cold out, and Richie can see people drawing in close to each other, friends huddling together as close as lovers for more warmth. If someone asks, well, it’s cold out and Eddie’s warm, of course Richie’s this close to him, of course he’s huddling near him. New York weather’s just too cold for Richie’s LA skin, he’s used to heat waves and California sunshine.

“What were you majoring in back in college?” Eddie asks.

Richie huffs out a laugh. “I was undeclared for a full year,” he says, “then I went into Film, and then I failed the last year ‘cause, hey, it turns out you’re kinda fucked if you try to juggle a standup comedy career, spec script writing, two day jobs, and college.” He tucks his hands into the front pockets of his jacket, more to shield them from the cold than anything, and says, “I did so much make-up shit just to be able to walk away with my diploma.”

“You’re gonna love this,” says Eddie. “I never finished my second year of college.”

“How _scandalous_ ,” says Richie. “What happened?”

“I was a business major, I had a minor in finance!” Eddie says. “I was on track to become a risk analyst—”

“That is _so fucking boring_ —” Richie starts.

“—fuck you, it’s not,” Eddie says, thumping Richie’s shoulder with his own, tugging down the beanie he’s stolen from Richie’s suitcase over his hair. Richie knows this, because he watched Eddie fish it out of his suitcase and pull it on. “It’s actually a very useful job where you essentially advise corporate entities on where to invest.”

Richie tips his head back and lets out a loud, fake snore.

“I am going to push you into a fucking snowdrift, motherfucker,” Eddie says.

“You’re an adorable little chihuahua when you get pissed,” Richie says, looking back down at him. “But okay, if it’s so fucking useful, why’d you quit?”

Eddie laughs, a little self-consciously, then ducks his head, hand rubbing over his neck. “A friend of mine was in a Shakespeare troupe that played sometimes at a community theater,” he explains. “It was just a weekend hobby for her, but one day she got sick, and they needed someone to fill the role she’d played—Rosencrantz. She begged me to fill the role for her, since I’d helped her with lines so many times I knew the script pretty well too.” He kicks a pebble down the road, and Richie watches it bounce away from them, coming to a stop near a bench with a man on it, taking pictures of the pigeons he’s feeding.

“So what happened?” Richie asks.

“The bug got me,” says Eddie, turning on his heel and walking backward. “The guy playing Hamlet—he was the _shit_ , I swear, before I acted with him this guy was just some philosophy major I had to share one class with, but he was fucking _great_ in the role. He was just so—so—”

“Generous?” Richie says. Actors, he’s found, love that word, they use it as the highest compliment all the time, especially the ones who haven’t quite hit the big-time just yet. Gets a little tedious hearing it so much. A little further up from where they’re at, he spots the guy on the bench getting off his seat to bend down better, focusing his camera on the birds pecking at the birdseed scattered on the pavement.

“That!” Eddie says. “He was so good and _I_ had to match that somehow, play Rosencrantz better. And when curtain call came and they called me and the girl playing Guildenstern up, there was so much _applause_.” He smiles at the memory, brown eyes misting over with nostalgic tears as he walks backwards. “I withdrew from my course maybe—two weeks after? Because I wanted to take an acting class.”

“That’s pretty fucking ballsy,” says Richie.

“It was, I’m still kinda surprised I even went there,” says Eddie. “I almost talked myself out of it so many times, it’s why it took me two weeks to drop out. But I wanted that thrill again, so I took an acting class and, well.” He shrugs. “Here I am now.”

“And to think,” says Richie, “if your friend hadn’t gotten sick, we wouldn’t be here right now.” He chuckles. “Think I should send her a fruit basket?”

“Nah, she’s doing great now,” says Eddie. “She’s on Broadway playing Elphaba.”

“Lucky fucking girl,” says Richie. “I might send her a fruit basket anyway, for getting you started on acting.”

“I think she might—” Eddie starts, but he’s walking backwards and the bird photographer’s just standing up, capping the lens of his camera. One wrong step, one moment where Richie’s barely paying attention to anything besides Eddie, and _bam_ , suddenly Eddie’s back smacks into the guy’s, sends birdseed scattering fucking _everywhere_ and scaring off the pigeons.

“Holy _shit—_ ” Eddie starts.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” says Richie, grabbing hold of Eddie and pulling him backward, just in case the guy’s pissed at them. Hopefully not. They didn’t break the camera! That should count as a point in their favor. Probably.

“Fucking watch where you’re _going_ ,” the guy starts, spinning on his heel towards them, but then he stops when he sees them. His eyes grow very wide.

“Crikey, Eds, it’s a fan,” Richie whispers in Eddie’s ear, adopting an Australian accent.

“Don’t make me laugh, I’m trying to _apologize_ ,” hisses Eddie, who’s, sure enough, trying to keep the smile off his face, his thin lips pressing together to hold the laughter in.

“Eddie?” the guy says. “Eddie fuckin’—it’s me! It’s Stan. Stanley Uris. From—From Bangor, remember?” He snaps his fingers, like he’s only just remembered this now. “Yeah, Bangor,” he says.

What.

“Were you gonna tell me you _knew the bird narrator guy_?” Richie hisses.

Eddie frowns at Stan for a moment, caterpillar brows crawling together in confusion. His hand sneaks over to Richie’s elbow, and tugs him slightly closer. Richie follows the tug, ready to fling an arm out to keep Stanley fucking Uris off Eddie, because as much as he likes the guy’s narration on documentaries, the fact remains that it’s highly creepy to say to a celebrity that once upon a time you _knew them_. “I—Sorry, Maine was a little rough for me,” says Eddie. “I, uh, don’t remember much of it.”

“Yeah, no, me neither,” says Stan. “But I do remember, you used to come out with me sometimes when I was birdwatching, and—”

“—I’d ask you a fuckton of questions about what kinds of birds you were looking at,” says Eddie, slowly, like he’s starting to remember something. He steps away from Richie now, and says, “No way. No fucking way. Stan?”

“Hi,” says Stan, a small smile touching his face. Then his eyes flick to Richie, and he frowns. “Who’s your friend?” he asks, squinting at Richie with great wariness. Richie doesn’t blame him for that, because at the moment _he’s_ trying very hard to stare Stan down and telepathically transmit the words _hey back the fuck off from my friend._

“Oh, this is Richie,” says Eddie.

“Hi,” says Richie, voice tight.

Stan snaps his fingers again, and says, “Tozier? Richie _fucking_ Tozier? Richie _Trashmouth_ Tozier?”

( _you guys aren’t my friends no Richie she’s not hot that’s not very long I’m sorry about what happened I’m sure he’s gonna be fine Rich I’m not looking for those kinds of tits yeah it’s really killing me to lose those four pence I know I’m a Loser and no matter what I always fucking will be—_ )

“Stan?” Richie says, hearing the crack in his voice and the distant sound of birds chirping, and in his head the sound of—of _something_ starting to crack, like a wall in his head, like a door that’s been bolted and welded shut beginning, slowly but surely, to creak back open. “Stanley Urine? Stan the Man?”

“Yeah,” says Stan. “From Maine. Bangor, right?”

“I didn’t stay in Bangor very long,” Richie hears himself saying, as though from a very long distance. “Maine is—yeah, Maine’s pretty fucked in my head. Eddie, hey, man, can we go?”

“But Stan’s here!” Eddie says. “God, I haven’t seen Stan in so fucking long. I didn’t—I didn’t even remember you, man,” he says to Stan, “that’s how long it’s been. Jesus, you really grew into your face, huh?”

“Yeah, I did,” says Stan. “You got taller, surprisingly. And _you_ ,” he says to Richie now, “are—a _lot_ bigger, I think. I remember you were so scrawny as a kid, and you had these glasses that made your eyes bug out, it was ridiculous.”

“What can I say, I ate a lot of veggies and drank a lot of milk,” says Richie, who did neither. It’s really a gift of genetics—his dad was tall, his mom was tall, so therefore Richie’s just a hair over six foot. But he remembers, dimly: back in the day Stan could look him in the eye without having to crane his neck back. Back in the day there was a boy who stood so tall that Richie couldn’t help but look up to him, but try as he might he can’t summon the boy’s face and name to his mind now. But wait, he said _met back up_ , what does that even mean? “And I got better glasses, too.”

“And Eddie back, apparently,” says Stan.

Richie freezes. “I don’t—get what you mean,” he says.

“We met for the first time last year,” says Eddie.

“No?” Stan says, his eyebrows furrowing at them, like he’s trying to reconcile this new piece of information with his memory. His clearly flawed memory, because Richie would _remember_ Eddie Kaspbrak. Wouldn’t he? “No, you guys—I’m pretty sure you at least knew each other when we were kids. And I think I remember, you were best friends from the start.”

“We met last year,” says Richie. “I haven’t known Eddie that long, I’d _remember_ if I did. I’d know.” Right?

Stan stares up at him, frowning, his eyes searching, seeing right through Richie’s walls. “It was a long time ago, though,” he says, after a moment. “Really, I’m just glad you two found each other again.”

“Don’t you live in Atlanta?” Eddie interjects, before Richie can challenge that _again_. Because he’d know, wouldn’t he? If he and Eddie had been friends before, he would _know_ , because Eddie feels so much like home that Richie can’t imagine ever forgetting him. “What are you doing in New York?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Stan. “I’m just here to record voiceovers for a documentary. What’re you two doing here?”

“Saturday Night Live,” says Eddie. “We’re flying back soon.”

“I’m moral support,” Richie says.

“Oh, hey,” says Stan, “you can come out with Patty and me, can’t you? Or—”

“Oh, no,” says Richie, tugging Eddie back, his heart hammering fast against his chest, “we’d love to, but we gotta pack our shit.”

“Jesus, Rich, it’s okay,” says Eddie, brushing Richie’s hand off, “we can go out with them, catch up.”

“Yeah, but—the _flight_ ,” says Richie, helplessly. He can’t be here with Stan. He can’t—He _can’t_ learn more, from this stranger who somehow knows Richie better than he knows himself. Maybe knows the story of Richie and Eddie better than they do, and isn’t _that_ just a kick in the teeth. “Eddie, Eds, we get up early to catch our flight, how ‘bout we pack our shit now so we don’t have to worry about it at 4 in the fucking morning, yeah?”

“Why are you so fucking worried about our flight all of a sudden?” Eddie asks, frowning, glaring up at him.

_I wish it was the flight I was freaking out about,_ comes the thought. “I just—remembered that Ronnie and I have a writers’ thing tomorrow and I don’t wanna miss it, y’know,” Richie says, and even he can hear how feeble the lie is, can see the increasingly pissed-off look on Eddie’s face. “But, uh, hey, you guys have fun catching up without me, I guess.”

“It’s fine,” says Stan, “you guys are a package deal now, aren’t you? We can catch up another time, if you two ever come out to Atlanta.” He puts his camera back into his bag, disassembling the lens and sticking it into a special pocket in the bag, and says, “I’ll see you guys around.”

“Wait,” says Eddie, “Stan, fuck, hold up—”

But Stan’s already walking away from them, snapping off a final wave as he does. The sight of him walking away from them doesn’t relieve Richie as much as it should, because instead of relief, grief bubbles up in his chest, wrenching at his heart. Grief for what? Stan’s not dead. Stan’s taking pictures of birds. Stan’s going out on a date with his wife tonight. He’ll be fine.

Eddie steps forward, a hand reaching up and out, as if he can somehow call Stan back. But it drops, his shoulders slumping as it seems to sink in.

“Eddie?” Richie says.

For a long moment, Eddie doesn’t say anything. Then he turns on his heel, grabs Richie’s arm, and starts pulling him away.

“Okay,” Richie starts, because yeah, okay, Eddie’s pissed beyond belief, “okay, uh, what’s going on here—”

“We’re going to talk,” says Eddie, his voice curt. “In private.”

\--

_Private_ , it turns out, is a little sanctuary in the North Woods of Central Park, so dense with trees that Richie can barely see the skyscrapers usually looming over them, a common sight in most of Central Park (that he’s visited, anyway). He can hear the crashing noises of a waterfall nearby, but it can’t drown out the sound of Eddie pacing, angrily, footsteps falling like thunder as he runs his hands through his hair.

“Well,” says Richie, trying to keep the mood light and adopting a Southern accent, “ain’t nobody here but us—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Eddie snaps, and Richie shuts his trap. “Fucking—don’t, Richie.”

“What’d you bring me out here for, then?” Richie says, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the way they’re shaking.

“What the _fuck_ was that?!” Eddie half-yells, finally whipping on his heel to glare up at Richie. “You didn’t have to treat Stan like that! You didn’t have to try and fucking—chase him off! We haven’t seen him in years, _I_ haven’t seen him in years—”

“We?” Richie says. “ _We_? Are we acting like we’re friends with Stanley Uris just ‘cause he said you used to be best buddies with him? Are we taking his fucking word for gospel?”

“He said you were his friend too!” Eddie says, jabbing his finger into Richie’s chest.

“I don’t remember that!” Richie half-shouts. “Hell, why would I? I left Bangor _immediately_ , there’s no fucking way I would’ve made a friend like Stan in the three fucking days I spent there before moving to LA! I’d _remember_ him!”

“But you did!” Eddie snarls. “You called him Stan the Man, Stanley Urine, and he called you by name! We _both_ knew him, and he said—”

“Forget what he said!” Richie says. “I know we met last year, why the fuck would I forget _you_ if we knew each other before then?!”

“We forgot everything else!” Eddie shoots back. “We forgot fucking _everything_ about—about Derry, fuck, we didn’t even know it existed until Mike said so—”

“Don’t pull me into this,” says Richie, “ _don’t_. I’m not—just because I’m helping you guys with your mysterious disappearing hometown, it doesn’t mean I’m _involved_ , it doesn’t mean I’m—I’m somehow a _part_ of this. It can’t!”

“You’re helping us, I feel like that’s getting involved,” says Eddie, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Not to _this_ extent,” says Richie. “I’m not—whatever the fuck is going on, with Derry, with this fucked-up memory loss thing, I don’t want to be in deeper than I already am!” He shakes his head, steps back, says, “You don’t—You don’t fucking think it’s a bad idea to try and un-repress the shit your brain repressed for a good reason, god only knows why. Because if it’s buried deep in your head, maybe _you shouldn’t try to dig it the fuck back up again._ ”

“Or maybe it would help to face it head-on!” Eddie says. “I mean, yeah, it’s fucking terrifying, but Jesus fucking Christ—I can’t just stick my head in the dirt and pretend I’m fine with not knowing shit-all about this part of me!” He runs his hands through his hair again, and he looks wild, disheveled, _furious_. “Every time, every _fucking_ time I think that I’ve got a good grasp on who I am something comes along and fucking overturns everything I thought I knew about myself and I have to pick it back up again, and god-fucking-dammit—maybe I just want to know who I am! Or who I was before I came to New York, because maybe I was _happy_!”

“Why does it _matter_ so much to you to know who you were before?” Richie says, stepping forward once more, voice rising. “Who you are now is—is good enough for me! I _like_ you now, I don’t care about your past! I’d rather it stayed buried, because what the fuck would be in it but just—more trauma, more bullshit, more of the same fucking terrible shit that you went through? That I went through, that we both had to go through just to get here?”

“Because I don’t feel _whole_ ,” says Eddie, “and—what, you think this is about you?” The laugh that comes out of him, this time, is harsh and mirthless, a whip cracking through the still air. “I don’t care that you don’t care, all right? It’s _my_ fucking life and you don’t get a say, just because we’re fucking!”

_Just because._ “You’re my _friend_ ,” says Richie, wounded, “I don’t want—I do care, damn it, but it’s fucking insane that you want to remember this shit when your own subconscious made it fucking clear that it’s such a bad idea. You think finding anything more will make you _happy_ , but goddammit, Eds—”

“Do not fucking call me _Eds_ right now or I _swear_ —”

“—it won’t! It’ll just hurt!” Richie huffs out a breath, pulls a hand out of his pockets and drags it up his face, through his hair. God, he wants a cigarette. God, he wants a drink. “I told you before, I can’t—I don’t want to look at the past. There’s nothing to find there but pain and shit and sorrow and fuck-all. You’re better off not knowing.”

“But you heard Stan,” says Eddie. “You heard him. He said we met before, he acted like you were friends with him, there must’ve been _something_ that wasn’t just—all _shit_. It definitely couldn’t have been all bad for me.”

“Just because you want to salvage something from _your_ shitty-ass childhood doesn’t mean I wanna go spelunking in my own repressed childhood memories,” says Richie. “You know what I’m gonna find there? Fucking—nothing but shit about how—how I’m dirty and sick for being a goddamn _homo_ , that’s what, because who the fuck’s gonna show rural Maine shitheads a fucking Pride parade? _No one_ , because all the queers in the backwoods of Maine fucking _die_.” He’s read enough news, knows enough history to know that much: people like Charlie Howard and Matthew Shephard, people like Richie himself, they _die_ in Maine.

Eddie reels back, says, “ _Fuck_ you, it isn’t just salvaging something!”

“It is, though,” says Richie. “Okay, fine, I’m a fucking coward and I’m too scared to look at my own past? I accept that—”

“I never _said_ that, don’t put words in my mouth—”

“—but at least be _honest_ with yourself,” says Richie. “You want all that shit that happened to you back when you were a kid to have had _one_ good thing? Fine. But don’t fucking involve me. I’ll drive you, I’ll get in your crazy relatives’ way, but this, what Stan said—that’s too far for me.”

“I thought we were gonna do this together,” says Eddie. “You said you’d be _right fucking there_ with me.”

_Sane together or crazy together._ Richie shuts his eyes, breathes out slow. Opens them again. “I also said I don’t want to _know_ anything about whatever fucked-up thing happened to me in my childhood,” he says. “Anyway, if I don’t get a fucking say, just because we’re _fucking_ —”

Eddie makes a horrible, pained noise in the back of his throat, like the echo of his own words is hitting home, tearing at his heart the way it did to Richie, just five minutes ago. “God, Rich, I just meant—”

“I know what you meant,” says Richie. “Just—fine. _Fine_. Go. Go talk to Stan about your past, go talk to Mike. You’re gonna do whatever the fuck you want, right? Fine.” He breathes in, then out. In, out. “I’ll leave you alone to it, then.”

“ _Richie_ ,” Eddie says, his stupid (beautiful) brown eyes sad and hurt, but Richie’s already turned and walked away.

\--

It takes Richie four hours, but finally he has to admit it: he’s gone and gotten himself completely fucking lost. Even with a phone to guide the way and a can-do attitude to the twisting labyrinth that is New York City (well, to a tourist like Richie, anyway), he has no fucking clue where he is or where he can go now. Because—god, he and Eddie _fought_. And not, like, their usual arguments over nothing where they’re just verbally sparring with each other, but they really clashed, they really fought, they really dug down deep and tried to hurt each other.

Four hours ago Richie had been buoyed by the force of his anger into just walking out of Central Park and taking whatever random direction beckoned to him. Right now, though, it’s mid-afternoon, he’s hungry because he’d skipped lunch, and now he’s so lost not even Google Maps can help him now. For a moment, he’s struck with the absurd urge to sit on a bench and ask a passing cop for help, like his parents told him he should do if he ever got lost.

But fuck, he’s almost forty. His fortieth birthday is, in fact, in just a little over two weeks. What he needs is to charge his phone somewhere and maybe to get himself a latte. Except he has no idea where the nearest café is on—he glances at the signs—MacDougal Street. There _is_ a Comedy Cellar here. He might as well.

He heads inside, and gets an iced tea, sits back to watch a comedian working the stage. She’s passable, he notes—hasn’t been at this long, has a lot more enthusiasm than experience, but her bit’s damn good, just needs a little more workshopping. He can hear polite clapping when she bows, and he turns to his side for a moment to say to Eddie—

To say to Eddie—

God. Four hours, and he misses that little asshole like he’d miss a limb. He walks out of the Cellar before the next comedian comes on, slumps into a parking bench, and calls up Eddie’s number.

“Rich?” Eddie says, picking up on the first ring, his voice frantic with worry.

“Hi,” says Richie.

“Oh thank god,” says Eddie, with a relieved sigh. “Where are you, man? The hotel didn’t see you come in and I didn’t know where you’d gone and do you even know this city all that well, Christ, what were you fucking thinking, what was I thinking, what the fuck were _we_ —”

“I’m in front of the Comedy Cellar,” says Richie. “On MacDougal Street. I watched a girl do stand-up and I turned to tell you about her and then I thought, _fuck, I miss that little bastard_.” He huffs out a tired breath, and says, “I’m sorry. I fucked up.”

“ _I’m_ sorry too,” says Eddie. “I shouldn’t have said—can you stay there? I can’t do this over the phone, but I know how to get to the Comedy Cellar from here. It’ll only take twenty minutes.”

“Yeah,” says Richie. “Yeah, I’ll stay here—where the fuck else am I going to go, anyway?” He laughs, and even to him it sounds hollow. “I’ll be in the back of the room, watching hotshot comedians bomb onstage.”

“Okay, got it,” says Eddie. “Hey, listen—I, I love you, all right?”

“Love you too,” Richie says, his voice barely louder than a whisper, the cold grip on his heart finally easing up. Some part of him wonders, idly, what it would feel like—to be able to shout his love from the rooftops, to not be so goddamn _scared_. The rest, on even the mere hint of that thought, try very, very hard to bury it as deep down as possible. Key word being _try_ , this time.

Eddie hangs up, after that. Richie sits on the bench for a few more moments, and leans against the back, watching the people pass him by.

Two guys walk on by, holding hands. One of them’s got a riot of curls just barely kept back by a blue scrunchie, the other one is clearly working on a goatee as dark as his eyebags. They’re both grinning at each other, all caught up in each other’s eyes, not caring who else sees them. Hell, practically daring people to notice them, to see them, see how in love they are— _we made it, see, you did everything you could to tear us down but we’re both still here, and his hand is in mine and nothing you can say or do can rip us apart._

Richie watches them go, a lump growing in his throat. For a moment, for just the briefest of moments, he can almost imagine himself and Eddie in those kids’ shoes—happy, defiant, uncaring of who sees or not. God, it would be _something_ , wouldn’t it? To be able to shout out into the world just how much he loves Eddie Kaspbrak, without any fear. To be able to love him as much as he wants out in the open air, instead of hiding it all away. It would be _something._

He sinks into the fantasy, there—Eddie’s hand in his, Eddie’s lips on his with no care of the paparazzi seeing, Eddie’s brown eyes opening sleepily in the morning, a golden ring on his finger. If Richie woke up next to Eddie in the mornings for the rest of his life, well, that’ll be a life well-spent.

Then Richie blinks, pulling himself out of the fantasy. He sighs, and stands up. Then he turns to walk inside the Comedy Cellar, shaking his head at himself all the while. _Gotta face facts here, Tozier,_ he thinks. _You can’t have everything you want, so don’t you get greedy. Don’t you want more than you’ve already got. Don’t._

Doesn’t stop the wanting, though, but then again, it’s not as if Richie really expected it to.

\--

Eddie finds Richie at the back of the Comedy Cellar, nursing a glass of Coke and poking at his eggs benedict. Up on stage, some kid’s rolling through a bit about being the only person in her entire friend group to have read _Song of Ice and Fire_ , and her routine just stinks of smug assuredness that this somehow makes her a better fan than her other friends. Eddie can’t help but roll his eyes as he comes up to Richie, knocking on his table to catch his attention.

“This seat taken?” Eddie asks, a little anxious.

“Well, not for a pasta superhero like you,” says Richie.

“ _Rich._ ”

Richie’s face falls visibly, which is just—painful to watch. Shit. “Sorry,” says Richie, scrubbing his hand over his mouth. “Bad timing, I know.”

Pretty much everything that comes out of Richie’s mouth is badly timed, but Eddie kinda likes it that way. Likes Richie’s terrible voices and his off-the-cuff jokes. Would miss them if ever they went away. “Well,” he says, instead, as the comedian onstage delivers her punchline too hard, too loud, “honestly you’re doing better than she is.”

“That’s not too hard,” Richie says, wincing at the awkward pause after the punchline. “So, uh. I guess we could call earlier our first actual fight in, like, ever?”

“I have definitely fought you a couple of times before today,” says Eddie.

“Those were baby fights, this was a full-on brawl in Central Park,” says Richie. “Shoulda sold tickets.” He scratches at his stubble, then pops some eggs benedict into his mouth, chews and swallows. “I’m—I’m sorry. I knew you wanted to look deeper, and Stan was like your Holy fucking Grail. I just—when he said he knew _me_ , alarms started blaring in my head.”

“I know the feeling,” Eddie says. Back when he was younger, he used to have alarms going off in his head all the time: _don’t touch that, don’t eat that, don’t even look at that, you might get sick or injure yourself._ Funnily enough, it only sounded like his mother half the time. The rest, it had been his own voice, warning him away. Sometimes it still rises up in the back of his mind like expired takeout, just as unexpected and just as unpleasant. “I’m sorry, too. I knew _you_ didn’t want to, but I thought—when he said he knew us both, I thought you’d at least be curious, and I didn’t really—I thought maybe it’d be nice. For both of us to hear more.”

“I kind of am,” Richie says. “But I’m not—I’d rather not, you know? Find out more about the shit from Maine I can’t remember, ‘cause it just sounds like a nightmare.” He looks down at his eggs. “I don’t—I don’t remember my nightmares, but I know they’re fucking horrible, and I know they’re connected to Maine and the shit that I can’t remember in some way.” He sighs. “And I don’t want to know more. I don’t need to know more. I’m happy not knowing, not looking any deeper. But you’re not, and—fuck, I did say we’d do this together, huh?”

“Yeah,” says Eddie. “But I should’ve respected that you _really_ didn’t want it, and I didn’t.” He drums his fingers against the table, wishing he’d bought himself a drink or something, and Richie watches him for a long moment before knocking on the table to get the waiter’s attention, murmur something in his ear. “Please don’t get me something adventurous,” Eddie says.

“Don’t worry, it’s just a Coke Zero,” says Richie. “You know, the shitty Coke that you inexplicably like better than the real deal.”

“Just because _you_ think it’s shit, Rich,” huffs Eddie. “Anyway, the truth is, I was—I was so fucking scared of finding anything out alone. I wanted you there with me, because you make me a hell of a lot braver.”

“You know that’s kinda bullshit, right?” Richie asks, and his tone is soft, a little sad. “You were already brave before we met last year. You don’t need me to _make_ you brave enough to face shit down.”

“Maybe not,” says Eddie, deciding not to argue with Richie over just how brave he is, because that’s a lost cause already, “but I wanted you there. I still do, because you’re my best fucking friend, and because—I know if something happens you’d back me up the whole way.” He breathes out again, then reaches for Richie’s hand, thumb rubbing lightly over Richie’s knuckles. “But if you don’t want to look closer into it, then—that’s fine. Just let me decide for myself.”

Richie’s eyes meet his, and it’s funny, really, how those eyes can always make Eddie’s breath catch in his throat.

“That I can do,” says Richie. “Do you still want to go talk to Stan? Catch up with him, or something?”

Eddie shakes his head, says, “I don’t even know how I’d do that. I didn’t get his number before—well.” Before Richie started acting all weird, and Eddie knows now that Richie’d been spooked by being told that they had _known_ each other, him and Eddie and Stan. And maybe more, if Eddie really thinks about it.

And that’s the elephant in the room, isn’t it. They _knew_ each other, but try as Eddie might, he can’t remember it, and it scares him that he can’t remember _Richie_ , of all people. He’s pretty sure that even as a kid, Richie would leave an impression on him, so what the hell happened that Eddie can’t even remember him? Or anyone else? All he knows about his childhood is just how _bad_ it was, how the way his mother raised him left deep scars on his psyche that have barely started to scab. There must’ve been _something_ good there, though. There must’ve been.

“He’s got a Twitter,” says Richie, pulling Eddie out of his thoughts. “Everybody’s got a Twitter these days, it’s the thing to do when you’re famous. You just have to DM him, set something up for somewhere down the line, in between all the press junkets and shit.”

God, right, the press junkets. Eddie sighs as his Coke Zero arrives, then picks it up and chugs, wishing he’d asked for something stronger than this. Gin and prune juice, maybe, that clears him right out. “I can’t just ask him to come out to LA to meet with me for no fucking reason,” he says.

“You could ask him to talk to Mike,” says Richie. “You guys can compare and contrast notes.”

“Shit,” says Eddie. “ _Mike_. God, Rich, weren’t you helping him?”

“I’m still helping him,” Richie says, “but at a distance. Looking into the history of the area, all that shit. Nothing as personal as whatever you two are doing.”

“We haven’t exactly gotten anywhere,” says Eddie. “Not even with Mom’s photos and all her old shit. I think she must’ve thrown it out.” Aunt Debra wouldn’t have tossed out a thing, of course—the towering stacks of papers and boxes, the sheer amount of _stuff_ overflowing from every nook and cranny of her home, have shown that much. “But Stan—he seemed to remember a lot more than we do.”

Richie stiffens up again, and too late, Eddie remembers— _we_ is a bit loaded in this context.

“Me and Mike, I mean,” Eddie hastily says, and he watches Richie—not quite _relax_ , but his shoulders slump a little, something in his spine unbends. Not all the way, though, because something wary still lurks behind his eyes, watching out for that pesky pronoun _we_ , in connection to Derry, Maine, and the nightmares springing from it. Because Eddie is sure, goddamn _sure_ now, that their nightmares have something to do with Derry. Maybe everything to do with Derry. And the thing is, it’s not Eddie and Mike having those nightmares, is it.

But Richie’s said his piece, drawn his line. _Up to here and no further._ Eddie can’t pull him past, not without risking losing him, and he can’t chance that. Maybe he’s being selfish for this, but he wants Richie to stay, for as long as possible. Something big and bad is coming, he can feel it in the pit of his stomach, but what it is he’s not sure. But he knows he wants, needs Richie there with him. They’re better together, after all.

Richie says, “So—you and Mike can talk to Stan, and you guys can solve,” and his voice drops into the same tone and register as Keith Morrison’s on Dateline, “the _Mystery of the Disappearing Hometown._ ” He pops another bit of his rapidly-disappearing eggs benedict into his mouth.

“And what about you?” Eddie asks. “What’re you gonna do?”

“Keep feeding Mike whatever I can find on the side,” says Richie. “And wait outside for you, if you need a ride.”

“But you don’t wanna get more involved,” says Eddie.

“Nope,” says Richie.

“Even if—”

“ _Nope,_ ” says Richie, shaking his head now, a warning: they’re stepping too close to the line.

Eddie sighs. “Well, all right,” he says. “Okay.” He sips at his Coke and, anxiously, asks, “Are we—Are we okay?”

And there—Richie’s eyes soften, and the corners of his mouth twitch upwards in a tiny, hesitant smile. He puts his fork down, and reaches for Eddie’s other hand to squeeze it tight. “We’re okay,” he says. “I promised I’ll back you up, and I’m fucking going to.”

And that, Eddie believes.

\--

**Stanley Uris**   
_@stanley_uris76_

hello? Stan Uris?

this is Eddie Kaspbrak

obviously

I didn’t get a chance to get your phone number since we had to pack for that flight, so sorry about messaging you out of the blue like this.

It’s fine!  
I’m actually really glad you did, I just realized I didn’t get your phone number either.  
How’re you and Richie doing? You both seemed a little shocked.

we’re doing just fine, thanks!

landed safely in LA a couple of hours ago

Richie says hi btw but he’s pretty busy right now

so don’t expect him to contact you any time soon.

Got it.  
So why’d you contact me?

I still want to catch up with you.

would you mind if I brought a friend with me?

his name’s Mike and he’s doing research into Maine, especially Bangor + surrounding towns.

Sure, I don’t mind. I’d love to meet him.  
When and where do you want to meet up? I’m in Atlanta at the moment, and you’re on a press tour, right?

unfortunately.

it’s fucking hell on earth.

You have all my sympathies, Eddie.

but yeah I was thinking

I might have a free weekend in there somewhere?

between the conventions and the press conferences and the interviews and shit anyway

I can catch a redeye to Georgia and meet up with you, and I know Mike’s mostly just working on his next book

figure he’ll appreciate the distraction.

Let me know when this free weekend of yours is and I’ll clear out a spot for you.  
The great thing about running your own accounting business is that you get to set your own hours, you see.

I thought you narrated documentaries??

That’s just a side thing.  
My day job is accountancy.

never tell Richie that

he will not let you rest.

\--

**# the-write-bitches**

**undeadsolo**  
Honestly thank fucking GOD we’re not on press tour duty  
I think I’d explode if I had to answer one more question about where I got this idea

**francine**  
haha yeah poor writer dad  
he looks so tired half the time  
also btw did you notice he and Eddie seem to be kinda close??  
like REALLY close

**jayjay**  
yknow what  
yes

**francine**  
what do you think  
what does the betting pool think

**undeadsolo**  
Betting pool is in a tizzy bc we have NO idea what is going on  
Honestly I’m not sure what to think anymore I thought Richie was straight but like  
No one looks at a friend the way he does to Eddie

**jayjay**  
you could cut the air with the knife that’s how thick the sexual tension and the pining is

**francine**  
should we  
like  
talk to them about this??  
I feel kinda bad

**undeadsolo**  
NOPE

**jayjay**  
NO  
and if the others were awake they would also say no  
this isn’t our business Francie

**francine**  
okay okay  
no talking about it where Richie and Eddie and Veronica can see


	11. 2016 - V.

**eduardo 🍆❤️**

_**Today** , 2:16 PM_  
okay, I made it to the hotel  
where are you and Ronnie?

skype call with netflix execs, sorry.

will be coming down just as soon as this is done!

does she mind that we’re  
you know  
rooming together?

nope.

i think she’s just relieved she doesn’t have to deal with me snoring again.

hey is this your first convention??

it’s my first time at the Salt Lake Comic Con  
but in general?  
no, I’ve been in a couple other panels.  
I think SDCC was my first?

i am so sorry that was your first.

that’s like throwing a kid who can’t even doggie-paddle into a raging river and telling it to fucking swim against the current.

yeah, it felt like that  
but I did pretty okay!  
kinda weird we’re not at the bigger places just yet though.

we’re a new show eds they don’t wanna hype us up too hard.

they’re gonna build it up slowly until the show drops, tour us around the lesser-known cons and the talk show circuit.

and then once the show drops we’re off to the big leagues aka san diego and new york.

not looking forward to San Diego at all.  
what a fucking cesspit.

the trials of being an actor!

are you coming down here any time soon?

gimme five minutes to wrap this up.

\--

They head out, afterwards, just as the sun is setting. Richie falls in behind Eddie, letting him take the lead, and they end up at some quirky little restaurant called Pig & A Jelly Jar: invitingly yellow walls, a large and beautiful mural of Salt Lake City behind the plush sofas, and _excellent_ food, as Richie quickly finds out.

“Why are you eating a _garden salad_?” he asks, halfway through his mac and cheese and pulled pork combo. God, it’s delicious. God, he’s kind of pissed at how delicious it is. He could make this at home, maybe. “There’s a fuckton of food here and you’re just—that’s a fucking _garden salad_.”

“I actually _like_ salads, fuck you,” says Eddie, raising his middle finger at him. “I can’t always eat hot dogs and burgers all the fucking time.”

“Burgers have never done anything to you, how dare you,” says Richie, with no real anger behind his words. He tugs his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through his notes, says, “You ever heard about this haunted house in Seattle called Rose Red?”

“Uh, no,” says Eddie. “Should I have?”

“Nah, I found out about it doing research yesterday,” says Richie, passing his phone over to him. There’s no real spoilers on his Notes app at the moment, just a list of ghosts and ghouls and urban legends that Richie plans on using for the show, at some point. “It used to belong to this fucked-up family called the Rimbauers, and people used to go missing while _inside the house_. All the time!”

“Used to?” Eddie says, scrolling through Richie’s notes. Then his eyebrows go up. “Oh, wow, okay, so it got torn down a while back for condos.”

“ _Haunted_ condos,” Richie says. “No more outright disappearances, but there _is_ a shocking amount of violent crimes and paranormal experiences.” He dips his fork back into his mac ‘n’ cheese, and says, “I was thinking, maybe I’d make living in an apartment like that part of Topher’s backstory.”

“Oh, that’s not a bad idea,” says Eddie, putting the phone down, a grin touching on his face. “Could explain why he’s so blasé about the crazier shit that happens on the job—he’s used to seeing much worse from back in the day.” Then he pauses, and says, “Would he bring Nancy there? And why? Because he probably would, when I think about it, if he got the chance, and he wouldn’t see anything wrong with it. It’s _normal_ for him, it’s what he works in and it’s what he grew up with, but Nancy—she didn’t grow up a werewolf. This isn’t _her_ normal.”

“Oh, shit, hey,” says Richie, “he brings the rest of the gang over for Thanksgiving, and they are _way_ more freaked out than he is by all the ghosts that keep popping out of the woodwork.”

“What if one of them’s his grandfather, but the guy doesn’t know he’s a ghost and Topher doesn’t want him to find out?” Eddie asks. To Richie’s delight, Eddie drops into Topher’s cheerier, slightly deeper voice then, and says, “The shock would kill him if I told him! Again.”

Richie snickers into his hand, and says, “The poor sonuvabitch—died of a heart attack in his sleep and doesn’t even realize. Yeah, that would _really_ throw most of them, even Cassie with her world-weary shtick, ‘cept maybe Ezra.”

“Ezra’s a vampire,” says Eddie. “He’s seen some shit.”

“He was alive during the 1960s, he has definitely seen some wild shit,” says Richie, feeling that thrum in his blood, that floaty giddiness of being carried away by a bolt of inspiration and being able to drag somebody else along with him. It’s diffused in the writer’s room, just because there’s so many people with their own ideas and Richie can’t drag them all along, but here in this little diner with a funny name? Yeah, he can drag Eddie along for the ride. He knows Eddie likes it. “You know who they’d have to worry about though? Jack. Poor fucking bastard.”

“God, right, I forgot, he’s going to have the hardest time lying to Topher’s granddad’s face, he’s _so fucking bad_ at it,” says Eddie. “You could make a gag out of it—how many ways can Jack delicately phrase it so he’s technically telling the truth?”

“So many ways,” says Richie. “ _So many._ ” He drums his fingers against the table and says, “I think you should come into the writer’s room for this.”

“I already come into the writer’s room,” Eddie points out, which, fair. Of all the actors on the show, Eddie’s the most frequent visitor to the writers’ meetings. But Richie knows Eddie can grasp what he means.

“As a writer,” Richie says. “For this one episode.”

Eddie stares at him, so gobsmacked that Richie’s gut starts to twist into an ugly knot. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Eddie says. The doubt that’s always sitting in the back of Richie’s mind rears its ugly little head and says, _He thinks you’re only asking him this because you guys are fucking._

Sure enough, Eddie starts, “Are you asking me because—” He can’t even finish the sentence.

“Fuck, no,” says Richie, alarmed, shaking his head. He reaches across for Eddie’s hand, squeezes it gently. “I’m offering ‘cause you’re giving me some fucking _good_ material, and it’d be a damn shame not to have your name on it.” And not because they’re fucking, which Richie doesn’t tack on, because they’re in public, neither of them are out of the closet, and Richie’s still kind of terrified of saying _I’m gay_ out loud in broad daylight, in the middle of a crowded room. “I’ve never even offered my exes a walk-on role,” he says. “You think I just hand writing jobs out like fucking candy?”

“I’m not that good at it,” Eddie protests.

“So get in some practice,” says Richie. “I’ll lend you books. You want motivation to beat writer’s block? I’ll blow you for a whole spec script, how’s that?”

Eddie’s jaw drops.

\--

Eddie’s head is spinning crazily, and the only anchor point he has is Richie’s hand, holding on to his. Jesus. Three years ago he was doing shit like _Nut Job 2_ and _Santa Claws Ruins Christmas_ , on the unspoken shitlist of nearly every respectable production in town. Now here’s Richie, asking him to _write_ for the show that Richie must see, in some way and on some level, as _his_. How much must you trust someone, if you look at them and decide that, yes, you could absolutely trust them with even a piece of what you’ve been working your whole life towards?

“A blowjob, huh,” Eddie weakly says, because the only alternative is to break down crying on Richie in this diner in Salt Lake City. That is not fucking happening. “It better be a good one, because holy _shit_ , that’s—that’s a lot to ask.”

Richie pulls his hand back, and says, “I’m—if it’s moving too fast—”

Oh, fuck yeah, it is. “No,” says Eddie. “No. Sort of? Fuck. It’s a lot, and I don’t know if I’m up for—for having my name on a script.”

“It doesn’t have to be on the episode script, if that’s what you’re worried about,” says Richie. “You can go uncredited, if you want. I just think—you have a good sense for comedy.”

“You’re biased,” says Eddie.

“You literally just spent five minutes breaking a Thanksgiving plot with Topher’s ghostly grandpa who doesn’t know he’s actually dead,” says Richie. “If anything, you’re biased against you.” He props his chin up on the heel of his palm, says, “I’m not gonna press if you really don’t wanna do it. But, Eddie. Just—think about it, okay?”

“Is there a deadline or—”

“Nope,” says Richie. “We’re not even sure how many episodes we’ll be getting, if we get a second season. So when I say no pressure, I mean it.”

“I just,” Eddie starts, then stops. Sighs, and runs his hand through his hair, trying to ignore the panic and terror and anxiety churning together. For half a heartbeat, he wishes he’d brought an inhaler with him. Sure, he doesn’t really need one, he barely ever uses the one he left back in LA, but still. “This is your baby,” he says.

“Nah, the show’s more like a college student who moved out of the house at this point,” says Richie. “It’ll call me back and everything, but thank fucking god I’m not the only one who’s gotta be responsible for it anymore.” He lays his hand over Eddie’s again, thumb stroking over Eddie’s knuckles. “If it helps,” he says, “consider it as me passing the buck to you for an episode. If I don’t have to write the initial scripts for one episode, I don’t have to spend an hour on it that I could be using on finally getting some fucking sleep.”

Eddie chuckles to himself, his nerves slowly untangling themselves from the knot they’ve gotten worked into. “I’ll—think about it, I guess,” he says. “I make no guarantees, though. I’m new to this writing thing.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” says Richie, leaning forward and lowering his voice to whisper, in a mock-conspiratorial manner, “that’s how everybody in this business starts out.”

\--

**Mike**

_**Today** , 7:28 PM_  
So how was it

the salt lake city con?

went great, mikey, thanks for asking.

way less mormons than advertised i feel very disappointed in the church of latterday saints.

Lucky you  
I had to deal with them all the time while researching the Shilo Inn  
It was  
Unbelievably exhausting

oh shit that sucks.

i read about that inn and the shit that went down there, sucks you had to deal with mormons while looking into that shit.

Honestly  
It wasn’t unexpected  
And it’s not even the worst thing I’ve had to deal with while doing research for a book  
But yeah it wasn’t great either  
It’s somewhere in the top 15

checked it out btw.

it’s a holiday inn now?

It’s been a Holiday Inn since 2014 at least Rich  
Anyway so  
What’s next on your itinerary?

eddie’s going for an interview with james corden as soon as we’re back in la.

why?

you wanna go on a research binge with me or?

If that’s fine by you  
Eddie mentioned you didn’t want to hear about any personal revelations re: Derry  
And you like reading about morbid shit so  
How about backing me up while I go asking around about the Bradley Gang shootout?

where are you planning to do all this asking?

Out in Bangor on Thursday  
Unless you’ve got a prior commitment  
I know you’re a busy guy and you’ve got press-cons and panel appearances coming up  
So if you can’t make it then I can just ask somebody else

i can catch a redeye to maine and back don’t worry.

nobody’s even gonna notice i’m gone.

and really all they need is the cast and ronnie, i’m just a bonus + i don’t end up shit-talking a talk show host for being bad at his job.

Has that happened in the past

lemme just put it this way.

jimmy fallon and i can never be in twenty feet of each other again.

plus i’m too used to not being onstage my brain-to-mouth filter is fucking nonexistent at this point.

You know what I don’t even want to know what you did to piss off Fallon  
Hey Richie  
Thanks

de nada.

anything for a friend.

Oh so we’re friends now

you showed me your serial killer board.

unless you do that to all the guys you bring to your trailer, in which case, ouch.

i thought we had something special mikey.

We do  
Your ego is safe

aw thank you.

it’s unbelievably fragile so the care is appreciated.

\--

Once upon a time, Bangor, Maine was _the_ most happening town on the East Coast, at least in the eyes of the logging industry. Back in the day, the lumber barons built grand mansions to celebrate their growing wealth, confident those mansions would always stand tall and the world would always be at their feet for the taking.

The grand mansions are still there, a mark of the city’s lumber history. The barons are long gone, and now their grand buildings share spaces with Starbucks and McDonald’s, which Richie figures is probably not something those long-ago fat-ass cats ever took into account. Oh, they also didn’t think about the AirBNB business either, which is why instead of sleeping in a hotel, he’s slipping past a creepy, wrought-iron fence and trekking up a hill to a blood-red brick mansion with white, wooden pillars and railings.

No memories have been dug up from the burial ground of Richie’s subconscious just yet. Thank fucking god for small blessings, Richie supposes, because what little he does remember about Bangor is shitty and doesn’t really bear dwelling on.

The porch steps creak when he puts his full weight on them, so he’s careful about where he steps. God, who the fuck owns this place? Probably some writer who got a little too big for his britches and went and bought this old thing, and now he can’t pay for repairs and shit. Would explain how Mike found it on AirBNB too.

Richie knocks on the door, and drops his voice to hiss, in a suitably vampiric tone, “ _See me. See me. Seeeee meeeeee_ —”

“Hey, Richie,” says Mike, opening the door. “What are you doing?”

“I am trying to use hypnosis,” Richie explains, in a voice a tad deeper than his own, affecting a vaguely European accent. “You know. For reasons that are not luring you out so I can drain you.”

“Oh!” Mike says, brightening. “ _What We Do in the Shadows_? I loved that movie, it was great.”

“Right?” Richie says, dropping the accent. “I owe Taika Waititi a blood debt, man. If it wasn’t for him I don’t think I’d be writing my own show right now.” He hoists his bag up onto his shoulder and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Can I come in?”

“Sure, come on in,” says Mike, stepping aside. “Put your bag down on the couch. There’s takeout in the fridge that you can nuke.”

Richie steps into the house. It’s weird, coming in, because the outside gives off every appearance of being a creepy little place to live in, but _inside_ is cozy. The parlor’s decorated with tasteful curtains and a fancy carpet, its furniture plush and well-worn, a typewriter sitting on a mahogany table and sharing space with a pile of files and folders. Right across, just past the stairway, is a well-appointed dining room, with an understated chandelier hanging above the table, and if Richie’s not mistaken, there’s a library right next to the parlor. He can see the shelves, in fact.

“This place used to belong to a horror writer,” says Mike, leading Richie into the parlor. Richie unceremoniously dumps his bag on the nearest couch, then flops down beside it, stretching his legs out with a relieved sigh. “He had to end up putting it up as an AirBNB ‘cause of the rising costs. He and his wife live in Florida right now, and they were very nice when I talked to them.”

“They know anything about what you’re looking into?” Richie asks.

“A little bit,” says Mike, sitting down in the armchair across from him. “They know about the Bradley Gang in general. They have some idea how that ended, but the specifics escape them, because of where that end was.”

“Derry,” says Richie, sourly, “land of the magic amnesia.”

“Yeah, bingo,” says Mike, resting his clasped hands on top of his knees. “It should’ve been on the front page. Al and George Bradley had been two of the FBI’s Most Wanted in 1935, the year they died, and their compatriots in the Bradley Gang weren’t far behind. They’d robbed six or seven banks by then, broken into homes, killed cops and civilians alike, and—what really pissed off the FBI—killed a wealthy banker they’d kidnapped _after_ the ransom had been paid in full.”

“The breaking and entering and indiscriminate murder didn’t register as a blip on their radar, huh,” says Richie, unsurprised.

“Al Bradley was a piece of work,” says Mike, shrugging. “So was his brother. If they’d been born in this century, they’d be the sort of people haunting the extremist side of Reddit and talking about brown people stealing jobs and committing crimes just before pulling some big, terrible stunt for the news.” A breath. Mike’s eyes flick downward to his own hands, then back up to meet Richie’s own. “Because they were born around the late 1900s, they turned to robberies and kidnappings to make a statement instead. In the 1930s, the Bradley boys and their crew ripped right through Indiana and left bodies in their wake.”

He stands now, picks up the topmost folder, and flips through it. He sits down next to Richie, and shows him the newspaper clippings: robbery after robbery, death after death, headlines reading _Bradley Gang Still At Large - Police Stumped By Vicious Robbers’ Movements_. There are, mercifully, only a few photos of the havoc they’d wreaked back in the day, and all of them the aftermath.

“Christ, they’re busy little bees,” says Richie. “So how’d they end up all the way in a little shithole in Maine?”

“They were evading the authorities,” says Mike. “It also explains why they didn’t go to Bangor—too many people would notice them. But when they got to Derry, they got complacent, because who would pay attention to the news in a little rural town?” His smile is sardonically ghoulish when he adds, “Turns out, people do still pay attention. Derry was where the Bradleys and their gang met their end—there was a huge shootout between the town’s police and the gang that left the gang members dead and one police officer with a bum shoulder from a stray bullet. Officially, it was just the police that got in on it.”

“But you’ve got evidence it wasn’t,” says Richie, as Mike flips now to the last few pages in his file. These are gruesome, to say the least: there’s a 1932 Ford V-8 absolutely riddled with bullets, with a dead man still slumped over the steering wheel and another body half-out of the window, limp fingers dripping blood onto one of those little tommy guns. There’s a 1934 Ford Deluxe with bullet holes in the windows, two women sprawled dead in the backseat, the dead man in the driver’s seat nearly unrecognizable, as is the other one in the passenger seat, his hand blown clean off. There’s a picture of Chief James “Jim” Sullivan standing beside the bullet-riddled corpse of Al Bradley in the morgue, grinning brightly. _Look what I’ve done,_ he seems to be saying, _look how I’ve blown this man to bits. Look, he’s missing an eyeball! Boys and girls, this is what your tax dollars are paying for: a photo op with a dead body that I made._

Richie swallows the bile rising in his throat. Jesus Christ. Yeah, the Bradleys were shitty people, and so was the rest of their little gang, but— _Christ_.

“I have secondhand accounts about what happened,” says Mike. “Most of the people who participated in the shootout that day are dead, but I tracked down a guy who was about 18 to 19 then. Last I checked, he was living here in Bangor, and I mean to get the account of that shootout straight from him. Or from his descendants if I must.”

Richie does the calculations in his head, then whistles, lowly. “Jesus fucking Christ, he’s gotta be close to a hundred by now,” he says. “You sure he’s not gonna croak midway through or something?”

“Honestly, no,” says Mike, wryly. “That’s why I’m here. If he’s still alive when I get to him and he does die midway through the telling, I’m not the only one they’ll blame.”

“Ouch,” says Richie, “I see what you’re gonna do. You’re dragging me under the bus with you.”

“Nah, no, you’re my insurance,” says Mike, patting his shoulder. “Think of yourself as my large, pasty-white shield. If the guy does croak and they wonder if the black guy had something to do with it, I’ll have _one_ white guy as a witness.”

Oh, that’s smart. Richie had been _joking_ , was the thing, but when he thinks about it, yeah. Yeah, it’s not wise to be the only man on the scene when someone croaks, even less so when you’re black, so of course Richie’s coming along: as insurance, as a shield, as a witness just in case. Just in case. Jesus, is this the kind of calculation Mike has to make every day?

Mike, watching him, says, “It probably won’t come to that.”

“Really hope so,” Richie says. “So where the fuck’s this guy?”

\--

As an actor in Hollywood, Eddie is used to talk shows. Back in the day, he practically thrived off the attention they paid to him and his movies, could talk for _hours_ about his process, and if it got him away from Myra for a little while longer, so much the better. (In retrospect he probably should’ve taken that giant blinking neon sign for what it was.)

These days he still likes them, but even with a comeback lined up and rave pre-release reviews for _Night Shift_ already circulating around, he doesn’t really get invited back on them all that much. He hasn’t re-proven himself yet, not after that rash of shitty movies he’d been in. At least he hadn’t until Saturday Night Live, anyway, because now people besides his fanbase are _really_ paying attention to his work again. Thank fucking god. He’d rather have them talking about even his worst movies than his personal life.

So of course, midway through the conversation, the host just has to ask, “So! Tell us: dating anybody new right now?”

 _Yes,_ Eddie thinks, _yes, he’s the funniest fucking person I know, yes, I wake up next to him and he drools on the pillow and it’s honestly both weirdly hot and incredibly dorky, yes, I love him, it fucks me up just how much I love him. Scares me, even._

“No,” he says, and the lie sits heavy on his tongue, in the pit of his stomach. He knows Richie will understand, but—doesn’t make it easier, does it. “No, nobody’s in my life right now. I’m just focusing on my career.” He laughs, self-deprecating, leaning against the edge of the host’s desk. “Too busy for a love life, really.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” the host says, sagely, and moves on.

When Eddie comes offstage at last, right as the commercial break starts, Veronica—who’s scheduled to be interviewed next—is talking quietly with his manager Ellie, frowning down at Ellie’s phone. Eddie sighs as he drops in next to them on the couch, and says, “It’s Myra, isn’t it?”

Veronica startles, says, “Oh, shit, Eddie—”

“Just do what you usually do,” Eddie says to Ellie, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll write a statement, you call the team, what did she say this time—”

“It’s not Myra,” says Ellie, shaking her head, her usual professional smile nowhere in sight. That’s really the first hint: something is wrong. Something is horribly, terribly wrong, far past the point anyone can fix it, if even Ellie can’t keep the professional mask up. “It’s Paul.”

A cold, leaden weight drops into the pit of Eddie’s stomach. “What—What happened?” he asks, fingers stealing briefly towards his pocket, where his inhaler is, before he forces them away. He can’t—He _can’t_ , not right now. “He’s okay, right? Did he get in jail for a DUI or some shit?”

Ellie shakes her head again. “He’s missing,” she says.

_Oh, god._

“Shit,” says Veronica.

“ _Fuck_ ,” says Eddie, horrified. Already he can see Paul’s daughter, whatsername, Cathy or Carol, descending on the house, panicking over her father’s disappearance. He’s not sure how the ex-wives might feel about it, but the daughter? Boy, oh, boy, she’s going to have some questions for Eddie. So will the police. Fuck, the _police_. Will they think he’s a suspect? Shit, will they think he murdered him? Shit, are they going to think Eddie even has a motive to want to _harm_ Paul? Fuck, is Paul even okay? (His throat grows tight. His heart beats fast, as if trying to make up for the sudden perceived lack of oxygen.) Oh _god_ he should’ve told him about the Winnebago, he should’ve fucking said to hold off on the trip until it got fixed he _should have said_ —

“—Eddie!” Ellie’s voice cuts through the spiraling thoughts in Eddie’s head, and Eddie blinks, snapping back to reality, to the sound of his breath wheezing through the narrow pinhole of his throat. She fishes around in his pockets, pulls his inhaler out, and says, “Here, come on, take a puff on this, it’s gonna be fine.”

“Is that an inhaler?” Veronica asks. “What the fuck?”

Eddie fumbles for his inhaler, sticks it in his mouth, and pulls the trigger. Almost immediately, the imaginary congestion in his lungs lightens up, going from being as bad as rush hour traffic on the 405 to as clear as an airplane runway just before takeoff. He breathes in, holds, then breathes out, aware now of Ellie’s hands on his shoulders, the concern in her eyes. “What happened?” he croaks.

“They found his car in Colorado,” she explains. “Overturned on the side of Humbuggy Mountain. No body, no signs of foul play, but they did find blood, must’ve been a couple of weeks old at least, and they figured out his Winnebago wasn’t exactly in the finest shape before the accident. They’re looking for him right now—he can’t have gone far.”

 _They’re looking for a body,_ Eddie doesn’t say. Yeah, someone can survive a car accident, sure. But injured, in the wilderness, in the building snow? Paul’s probably dead by now. Shit. _Shit._ “Fuck,” he says, “I should’ve _told him_ —”

“No,” says Ellie, her grip on his shoulders tightening. “ _No._ Don’t think like that. Nothing comes of thinking that way. I’ve been down that road before, so trust me, it’s not going to do anything.” For just a moment, Eddie half-thinks he can see shadows behind her eyes, the ghosts of the family she lost at eight, but they’re gone as fast as they came. “Do you want to keep going here? Because as your manager, I can’t advise you to do that, considering the shock you’ve just had.”

“I’ll do it,” Veronica says. “Eddie, you can go home. Call—Call someone.” _Call Richie,_ she’d been about to say.

Eddie nods, stuffing his shaking hands into his pockets as he stands up. The PA’s coming in now, and Ellie goes to intercept them, informing them about what’s just happened and asking for a little more time. Veronica takes Eddie’s arm, her manicured fingers curling loosely around his elbow, and leads him out of the room, out of the studio.

“I’m sorry,” she says, softly. “I know he was your friend.”

 _Was._ Because realistically speaking, Paul’s probably dead. A fifty-year-old man, badly injured and fresh out of a car accident, bleeding out into the snow? He wouldn’t have survived very long. “He was,” says Eddie, feeling—adrift, somehow. Cut loose, clinging to a piece of driftwood while some monstrous predator lurks under him. “I should’ve told him to fix up that fucking car.”

“It’s not on you,” Veronica says.

“You don’t know that,” says Eddie. Then he pauses, and says, “ _Shit._ ”

“What?”

“I’ve been staying in his basement,” Eddie says. “With him missing, I’m—I think there’s a chance I might be homeless in a week.”

Veronica says, “ _Shit._ ” She shakes her head, frowns, and says, “Okay, uh—legally, no one can kick you out of the place, I think, not while his body’s not found yet. But maybe it’s for the best if you moved out for the moment.”

God, right, the press is going to fall on this like vultures on a freshly-dead, very fat corpse. “I could find a hotel room,” he starts.

“Or you could talk to Richie,” says Veronica, as they step out of the building and into the sidewalk. The sun is starting to set over the boulevard, the blue leeching out of the sky to give way to the pinks and oranges of an LA sunset. “He’s your best friend. He’d love to help you.”

“I’m not going to impose on him,” says Eddie, trying not to give anything away. Does Veronica know? Has Richie told her? No, he doesn’t think so, but Veronica’s smart and she’s been there since they first met, or since they _thought_ they first met, anyway. Maybe she’s already noticed. He says, “I don’t—I don’t even think I _could_ ask. If he’s fine with me staying. Because—”

He can’t finish, but Veronica seems to get it, her chin tilting upward, her eyes meeting his in a flash of understanding. Her teeth dig into the corner of her lower lip.

Richie would let him stay, is the thing. Richie would welcome him into his home. That’s not the problem here.

The problem is that neither of them are out, and Eddie’s ex-wife has a spiteful streak a mile wide, and the Hollywood gossip rags are always sniffing around for another scandal. Richie and Eddie’s relationship could, with a careless kiss, a flash of someone’s camera, and an article written _just so_ , be turned into one—he can see the headlines now, accusations of nepotism and insinuations of Eddie getting his job just because he blew Richie well enough in stark black and white. And that can’t happen. Maybe Neil Patrick Harris managed to turn it to his advantage, sure, but Harris wasn’t about to stage a goddamn comeback, Harris was already an invaluable member of a sitcom ensemble. Eddie doesn’t have that.

“I can ask around,” she says, at last.

“You don’t have to,” says Eddie, shaking his head. “I can stay in a hotel room for a while, look for an apartment from there.” Even if privately he’s not exactly enthused about the prospect. He can tolerate hotel rooms in short bursts of time, but staying in one indefinitely? God, no.

Veronica breathes out slow, says, “You sure about that? Because I know a few people who need house-sitting.”

Honestly, Eddie’s not too proud to grab an opportunity like this when it’s dangled in front of him. He can still search for a new place even while house-sitting, and he won’t even have to go far. “How far would they be from the studios?” he asks, because he does still have some pride.

“Not that far,” says Veronica. “Maybe about an hour or so, with traffic?” She tucks strands of hair behind her ears as she brings out her phone, calling an Uber over. The fading sunlight seems to glint off the blue sequins sewn in swirling patterns onto her dress. “I’ll e-mail you a list, and you can pick out which one you feel like sitting for.”

“Yeah, that’s—that’s fine,” says Eddie. He loosens his tie, breathes out into the cool night air. He thinks of Paul, the carefree grin on his face before he’d driven away. _I’ll see you next year,_ he’d said, and Eddie had waved him off with a casual wave goodbye. Maybe if he had known that would be the last time—

He squeezes his eyes shut, against the tears prickling in the corners of his eyes.

\--

“Paul’s missing,” says Eddie, when Richie picks up on his call at 10:28 PM. “I—He’s probably dead? I’m packing my shit right now, there’s a fucking _crowd_ of paparazzi around the house and police officers in the kitchen.”

“ _Shit_ ,” says Richie, pushing himself upright. “You okay? Do you need a place to stay? You can stay at mine if you want.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” says Eddie. “Veronica got me a place to stay in for a while, and I’m looking for an apartment close to the studios. I just wanted—” He stops, breathes out, and the sound of it is harsh over the tinny speakers of Richie’s phone. “This is fucking insane,” he says, at last.

“You’re not a suspect, are you?” Richie asks. “Because I can be a character witness if the police think you’ve got anything to do with it. I’ll tell ‘em, _oh, no, officer, he couldn’t have possibly done it, we were too busy, what’s the word they use these days, writing!_ ”

“That’s not how it works,” says Eddie, a strange note in his voice, like he’s kinda freaking out right now. “Thanks for the offer, though. They don’t think I have anything to do with it, thank fucking god for that—so far as they were able to tell, he just lost control of the car. And it was a mountain, and it was dark and the roads were slick with snow—I’m surprised he didn’t die on impact.” He laughs, then, and there’s that hint of hysteria. Shit. “Fucking insane, right? You hear your friend’s gone missing and you’re surprised that between his shitty car and the snow and the mountain he somehow _still_ managed to survive long enough to drag his ass out of the wreck?”

“Eddie,” says Richie, worried. “Eds.”

“Because that’s what I keep thinking about!” Eddie says. “Somehow he unbuckled his seatbelt while bleeding profusely, and then he dragged himself out of his car! What a fucking feat of human strength, right? Too fucking bad that it’s probably gone to waste—”

“ _Eddie,_ ” says Richie, cutting through the rant before it can really get going. He likes Eddie’s rants, yes. He loves hearing him angrily declaim about the disadvantages of giant burgers more meat than bun, but this isn’t the usual Kaspbrak Rant. This is Eddie teetering on the edge of a breakdown, and Richie wishes almost immediately that he hadn’t flown out to fucking Bangor, because he wants nothing more than to go to Eddie right now and pull him into his arms, let him break down and ruin his shirt. “Hey, Eddie, hey. It’s—Fine, so it’s not gonna be okay, but are _you_ okay?”

On the other end of the line, he hears the sound of bedsprings creaking. Jesus, Eddie ought to get his bed replaced. “I’m,” starts Eddie, then he stops. “I got the news right after my interview.”

“Oh, fuck,” says Richie. “I’m sorry, man.”

“Yeah, it was fucking _terrible,_ ” says Eddie. “I just—I thought—y’know, I sort of wish they _did_ find a body? Because at least there would be some goddamn _closure_.” He huffs out a tired sigh. Richie imagines him rubbing his hand over his eyes, running his fingers through his hair, tapping his foot against the floor because all that nervous energy has to go somewhere. “But there’s nothing. They’re still looking, and no one’s going to tell me or his daughter or the exes anything more than that, and _it’s fucking terrible_ , because I keep thinking maybe, just maybe, despite all odds, he might be _alive_ out there.”

Richie thinks of the realistic fake corpse they’d used on the set of _Cold Light_. Thinks of the Trevor kid and his baseball glove, his gap-toothed grin in the missing poster, and the poor fucking mother, holding out hope until the very end. Because, as Mike had written in his book, _human beings are predisposed to hope, especially in the face of an absence like this: the absence of your own child, worse than the absence of a limb or some vital organ. At least the limb and the organ can, with some difficulty, be replaced. The child can’t be. All you can do is hope they come back one day._

Yeah, Paul’s not a kid, but—still. Better to lose a friend to death than to have them just disappear on you, all of a sudden, a ghost vanishing into thin air. “I’m so sorry,” he says, knowing how useless that platitude is, but there’s really no other way he can help over the phone.

“It’s okay,” says Eddie. “I just—wanted to talk to you, hear your voice. Make sure you were okay, and let you know I’m not gonna be staying at Paul’s place anymore. Fucking paps already descended on the place like vultures.”

“You got a way out?” Richie asks. Eddie and the paparazzi, historically, have not had the best relationship.

“Yeah, Max’s coming by to pick me up, and I already finished talking to the cops,” says Eddie. “The daughter, Carol, she’s just upstairs talking to the police. As soon as she’s done I’m headed out the back door.” Another sigh. “You know what the last thing he said to me was?”

“Yeah?”

“He’d see me next year,” says Eddie. “You know what the last thing I said to him was?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t drink and drive, and use your fucking seatbelt.” Eddie chuckles, now, but it’s mirthless, choked with the uncertain grief of those left behind when someone only goes missing. “I should’ve said something else! I should’ve told him to fix his fucking car. I should’ve said thanks for the basement. If I’d known this was going to fucking happen—”

“But you didn’t,” says Richie. “Eddie, this was a fucking _accident_ , and it’s not on you.” He pulls a knee up to his chest, and says, “I can fly back, if you want. Catch a redeye back, I can be there in a couple of hours.”

“No, hey, no,” says Eddie. “It’s—well, it isn’t okay, but it could be so much fucking worse. You don’t have to fly all the way back here, I just—just talk to me, Rich. That’s all.” His voice cracks, then. “I need something _normal_ right now,” he says. “Tell me about Maine. About what you’re doing for Mike. Talk to me about, god, I don’t know, anything that’s not someone going fucking _missing_.”

“I’ve got a shootout, is that okay?” Richie says, a little helplessly. “We didn’t do a whole lot today, Mike and I just talked about the Bradley Gang and went looking through the library’s archives here about them and you-know-where.”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” says Eddie. “The Bradley Gang—didn’t they get shot up like Bonnie and Clyde?”

“You got it,” says Richie. “Here’s the thing—the official record says the police chief wasn’t there. But guess who Mike found posing for a photo op besides Al Bradley’s dead body?”

“Jesus, that’s fucking sick,” says Eddie. “The chief?”

“Bingo,” says Richie. “The official record also says there were four or five police officers in the ambush. But Mike and I dug through the records, and from what we found, there were enough bullets from enough different sources that even if there were just four police officers, we’re pretty sure they and the Bradley Gang weren’t the only ones there.”

“So this wasn’t just an ambush,” says Eddie. “This was a lynch mob.”

“With less hanging and more guns,” says Richie, thinking of the car, the bodies, all riddled with bullets and turned into scrap metal and meat. His stomach turns at the thought. Yeah, the Bradleys might’ve been pieces of shit, but this execution-style massacre was a bridge too far. And he can’t forget the chief’s goddamn _grin_. “We’re not totally sure yet. We won’t be until Mike and I can talk to the last guy remaining.”

“Wouldn’t he be at least a hundred by now?” Eddie asks.

“Close to it,” says Richie. “His name’s Andrew Criss. Lives in a nursing home now, place called the Country Villa on Kenduskeag Avenue. We’re gonna drop by tomorrow, see if we can’t get him to talk about it.”

“Well, be careful,” says Eddie, and Richie’s relieved to hear no trace of the earlier breakdown in his voice.

“It’s a _nursing home_ ,” says Richie, with a quiet chuckle. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me or Mike. What’s the guy gonna do, run over my foot with his walker?”

“You’d bitch if he did,” says Eddie. “You stubbed your toe on the bed once and acted like you were gonna die, if he runs over your foot with his walker even by accident, you’d have a goddamn meltdown.”

“Ouch, Eds, thank you for the vote of confidence,” says Richie. “Really, I’m so touched.” He blows out his breath through his teeth, catching a stray lock of hair with it. “Tell you the truth, Mike and I are a little more worried he’s gonna croak in the middle than anything else. Guy’s so fucking old that I wouldn’t put it out of the realm of possibility.”

“Eh, he’s hung on this long,” says Eddie. “He can probably hang on for the length of an interview.” There’s a noise upstairs, and a soft sound like Eddie’s put the phone down on the bed. Richie hears his voice again, but it’s too muffled to make out any details. Then: “I gotta go. Max is here, and she’s a little antsy about the paps and the police.”

“See you soon,” says Richie. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Eddie hangs up after that, and Richie runs a hand through his hair. Opens his browser app and pulls up a new tab, searching for _Paul Sheldon missing_.

\--

 **Colorado Authorities Searching For Missing _Misery’s Child_ Writer**  
by Phyllis McCauley

 **COLORADO** \- Authorities have mounted a search for writer Paul Sheldon, best known for his _Misery_ series, after he was reported missing on February 29 by his agent.

Sheldon was last seen buying groceries in Silver Creek midway through January, having recently sent _Misery’s Child_ for publishing. The wreck of his car was found on Humbuggy Mountain, and authorities believe that he crashed it while driving under the influence, then extricated himself from the wreckage somehow. As of this writing, it is not certain where Sheldon might’ve gone after that.

Various writers and actors who have worked with Sheldon in the past, as well as fans of Sheldon’s work, have taken to Twitter to post their worries about Sheldon’s disappearance, and their hopes for his safe return.

\--

 **Eddie Kaspbrak** _@EKaspbrak76_  
@paulsheldonwrites was a good friend, and news of his disappearance has been a shock. I can only hope that at the very least he is somewhere safe.

 **lonnie | MISERY’S CHILD SPOILERS** _@miseryscompany_  
fuckin shaking right now what the fuck paul sheldon’s missing and his car was wrecked what the FUCK

 **flying solo** _@northernqveens_  
shit, I can’t imagine what his family and friends must be feeling right now

 **Bri is crying about Misery** _@BriTheHotChick_  
2016 is hell year and we’ve only just gotten into March I hate this

 **Mike Hanlon** _@mhanlon_  
Just heard about @paulsheldonwrites. Sending all my love to his family and friends and praying for his safe return.

\--

_From Mike Hanlon’s notebook:_

By the time Richie and I got to Andy Criss, Richie was uneasy on his feet, checking his phone and texting back and forth with someone. The news of Paul Sheldon’s disappearance had blindsided him, I noticed, but he’d never seemed close to the man. He was close to Eddie, though, so I wasn’t surprised when he stepped away from me before we came to the nursing home to take the call. From what little I could hear, it wasn’t much—just Eddie checking in from the place he was now staying in, because his basement apartment in Paul Sheldon’s house was off-limits in his current situation. In any case, the call was over after a couple of minutes, and Richie came back to my side as soon as it was done.

When I asked him if he was okay, Richie only flashed me a grin and said that he was fine. Well, he actually said it in a voice and manner that I’m sure would easily offend the Mexican-American population, but I got the gist of it well enough. (He apologized right afterwards. “I don’t know what the fuck came over me,” he had said, but I have a weird feeling Derry might have something to do with it.)

Andrew Joseph Criss, better known as Andy, had been drafted at 23 into World War II, and had come back bearing commendations for his quick thinking in battle. After the war, he wound up becoming the owner of Andy’s, a diner in downtown Bangor, a position that lasted from 1945 until 1986, when he gave it up to his son. Andy was bed-bound when Richie and I found him, and you could tell he was surprised to see a black stranger with a notepad visiting him, but not that surprised. I have a feeling a few people might’ve tipped him off, about me.

I will admit, I expected there to be more of a fight. Most people from Derry, when I talked to them about violent events like the Bradley Gang shootout, either lied directly to my face about where they were and what they were doing, or had no real memory of any of it. Others would simply dig their heels in and refuse to talk to me and my tape recorder any further. Andy certainly didn’t want the tape recorder, but he said, in a feeble, creaky voice, “Yes. I was there.”

“Well, that was easy,” said Richie.

Andy shot him a look, and said, “Why is _he_ here?”

“He’s my assistant, he gets me drinks and food,” I said. “Really? You’ll tell me?”

“No reason not to,” said Andy, sounding resigned. “No one will print it, and even if someone did, no one will believe it.”

“ _Was_ Chief Sullivan there, that day?” I asked.

“Straight to the punch,” said Andy. “You wondered about that, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “I wondered. We both did.”

“Either that, or he had a secret twin brother who liked to play sheriff and take pictures next to dead bodies,” said Richie. His eyes were steely and hard—he hadn’t liked the photo of Sullivan posing next to Al Bradley’s corpse. I couldn’t blame him. Richie didn’t dig very deep into specific crimes, so far as I could tell—he only took what details he thought he could get away with stealing, and found a way to make it funny, if morbidly so. But how could you make something so casually cruel as that picture funny?

“No, no, that was him,” said Andy. “You boys weren’t around when Bobby Thomson hit that home run for the Giants back in 1951, were you?”

I shook my head. So did Richie. Both of us had been born in 1976, twenty-five years too late to see something that spectacular.

Andy laughed, a weak thing. “Well, used to be, just about a million folks from New York had been there at that stadium that day,” he said. “Everyone wanted to have been there, at that ballpark, at that exact moment. Even if they weren’t—place wasn’t built to hold a million New Yorkers.” Then he smiled, mirthlessly, coldly. A slimy feel went up my spine at the sight of it. “Just the opposite with the Bradley Gang!”

“What, no one was there?” Richie butted in.

“If you ask anyone else,” said Andy. “There was, what, twenty, thirty thousand people who lived downtown in Derry back then? Twenty to thirty thousand people who could’ve witnessed the whole thing, start to finish.” He coughed. “It’s been eighty years, give or take. Not a lot of those people are left now. Hell, not a lot of them were left after fifty years, ‘cause people tend to die young in Derry. Something in the air.”

Or something in the water, I thought.

“And of those left,” Andy continued, “after fifty years, you wouldn’t find more than a dozen who could say they’d been in town that fine, bloody day. After eighty, well—it’s just me, boys. Just me, and I’ll tell you right here and now, it’s a heavy burden to carry all by your lonesome. But fifty years ago, if you asked me, if you asked any of them, they, _we_ would tell you: we were never there. Because in the same way all those fans wished they were in the ballpark that day Bobby Thomson hit his home run, we wished we weren’t even in Derry that day. You understand me, right, Michael? Richard?”

“Richie,” said Richie. He’d gone pale.

“Just call me Mike,” I said.

“Mike and Richie, then,” said Andy, with a wan smile. And, I saw, a look of recognition. I wondered suddenly if I’d ever met Andy, in the past that I have forgotten, somewhere in the fog that descends on the minds of those who leave Derry in the dust. “You boys sure you want to hear about this? You look a little peaky.”

I looked at Richie. I couldn’t blame him for wanting to leave. Eddie had talked about the way he’d blown up when they’d prodded too close to a past he didn’t want to even look at, and I had a feeling in my gut that should this come too close to that past, he’d simply get up and walk out of the room. But he looked back at me, and nodded.

“Yeah, we do,” I said.

\--

_Besides, it happened in Derry._

Pause. Rewind.

_Looked like he was floating out the window._

Pause. Rewind.

_The clown cast no shadow._

Pause.

Richie leans his head back against the plush leather of his airplane seat, Andy Criss’s words still rattling around his skull. There is something deeply wrong in Derry, he knows that much, and whatever it is, this clown has something to do with it. Whoever he is. But what kind of clown casts no shadow at all?

 _It’s probably just a trick of the mind,_ he’d said to Mike, as Mike had brought him and his things to the airport. _That’s all. Lot of shooting, lot of adrenaline, he probably just saw things._

Mike hadn’t tried to refute him on that, but the look on his face had said _uh-huh, sure, buddy,_ in loud, sarcastic tones. It was almost as loud as if Mike had said it anyway.

Because neither of them really believed that. Something fishy is going on in Derry, and that damn clown is part of it, somehow.

The thing is Richie doesn’t _want_ to know more about the clown. That way lies—pain and sorrow and madness, or some bullshit like that. A clown that can float and doesn’t cast a shadow? Yeah, right. Pull the other fuckin’ leg. It’s probably just a group hallucination or something, dreamed up in the heat of the moment by a bunch of wannabe vigilantes getting themselves off by shooting people to death.

One of the women had tried to surrender, Criss had said. She’d come out of the car, and they’d shot her compact right out of her hand, then shot her as she was clambering back into the car. And then the guy had gone on to say, _Sometimes you gotta put a dog down, when it goes rabid. That was all it was._

But the Bradleys and their crew had been people. Yeah, fine, they were completely shitty people, but the way they went out—nothing warrants that. And one of them had tried to surrender, that keeps sticking in his memory: the image of this woman, putting her hands up, shouting _stop, stop, please, I surrender._ And then getting shot for it.

Criss hadn’t croaked throughout the whole interview. Afterwards, he’d shooed them out, having given his story, and Mike and Richie had gone back to the AirBNB with a new and unsettling story rattling around their heads. Mike had seemed—well, not exactly _happy_ his suspicions had been confirmed, and hell, why wouldn’t he be unhappy? It had been a fucking lynch mob, there’s no point in looking at it any other way: a group had formed, had decided to mete out justice on their own terms, and they had done it in an explosively bloody way. Never fucking mind that at any time they could’ve just arrested the fuckers and had the FBI come pick them up, oh, no. _They_ knew better. _They_ had to put the gang down, like rabid dogs.

Mike had looked deeply unsettled, at that analogy. It had taken Richie a couple of minutes to understand why, but understand he did.

And that casual dismissal of why it hadn’t made as much of a splash as it should have— _it happened in Derry._ It makes sense on the surface, heinous crimes do tend to get more attention in cities like New York and Los Angeles and other places. But get violent and gruesome enough, it doesn’t matter where it happened, because people will flock to it like horrified and morbidly curious vultures. And that’s putting aside the part where Derry is apparently worse than a big city in terms of disappearances and missing persons. Especially missing and dead children.

Is there some kind of cult in town, Richie wonders, because that would really explain just about everything in Derry. He should tell Mike about that, surely Mike will agree with him.

When they land in LA, he’s one of the first off the plane, bag in hand and squinting up at the fading sunlight. On the way to the arrivals area, he shuts off Airplane Mode on his phone, and a text from Eddie, timestamped fifteen minutes ago, pops up that makes him smile: _at the airport now, brought donuts, can’t miss me._

He can’t miss him, all right—Eddie’s holding up a sign that reads _Richie Tozier Look Over Here_ , and wearing sunglasses and a hat inside like a douchebag. Or like an actor who doesn’t want to be noticed too much, of which Richie can count three people in pretty much the same get-up right now. He thinks, for example, that Ben Affleck just rolled on past Eddie, but he can’t be too sure.

But Eddie? Well, Richie doesn’t actually need the sign to be able to pick Eddie out of the crowd. Eddie is a bright and shining beacon all on his own, and Richie is just drawn to him no matter what. Hell, he thinks he’d be drawn to Eddie while suffering from amnesia.

Stan’s voice echoes in the back of his mind: _You were best friends from the start._

There had been a boy, in Richie’s scattershot childhood memories—a boy with a fast mouth, smaller than he was, who kept up with him anyway. A boy Richie remembers having been in love with. A boy who, fine, Stanley, could maybe be Eddie.

But what’s the point in dwelling on the past? It’s gone, vanished beyond the mists of Richie’s memory, and good fucking riddance, too. He wants to live here, and now, where Eddie grins up at him as he approaches, and it’s so bright and dazzling that Richie doesn’t know whether to look away or keep staring, even if he risks going blind.

“Hey,” Richie says. Then, because he can’t resist, “Who’re you again? I was told to expect Eddie Kaspbrak, but you don’t look a thing like him.”

“Asshole,” says Eddie, but he’s smiling when he says it, and he bumps Richie’s arm as they fall into step together, walking towards the parking lot.

\--

**# the-write-bitches**

**francine**  
DID YOU GUYS SEE THE TRAILER

 **jayjayjay**  
yes!!  
it looks so BEAUTIFUL

 **undeadsolo**  
I just cried on my boyfriend when it dropped  
Look at all our hard work finally being shown to the world look at it you guys  
It’s AMAZING

 **jayjayjay**  
RIGHT  
writer dads gonna cry like a little bitch

\--

 **edwardkaspbraks**  
Holy shit, you guys, the TRAILER. Eddie looks like a fuckin SNACC in that leather jacket with that cocky smirk hoSHIT

 **matt-murdocked**  
well i know what i’m binging in three weeks

**384 notes**

\--

Two weeks after the trailer drops, Richie makes his first appearance on a convention panel at a small con in Chicago, right beside Veronica. The scarf wound around his neck hides the hickey Eddie left there, but every time he moves he feels the fabric brush over the bruise. Gives him a thrill, really, talking to the cameras as though the man two seats away from him isn’t pulling Richie’s attention every so often.

Two weeks after the trailer drops, Eddie blows Richie so well when they get home from Chicago that Richie can barely think straight for hours afterwards, which is probably good for his health, because he’s pretty sure Eddie doesn’t want to be reminded that they’re defiling the bed of Captain James T. Kirk (the younger version with the killer blue eyes, anyway). They cuddle, because that’s what they do after sex now: cuddle like a couple of fucked-out, sticky koalas. At least that’s what Richie describes them as, later, for which Eddie smacks him in the face with a throw pillow.

Two weeks after the trailer drops, Eddie gets a call from Stan.

So that’s how, two weeks and two days after the first trailer drops onto YouTube and becomes one of those hashtag trends, Richie drives Eddie to a voiceover studio in the hills. Eddie spends the whole time looking out the window, eyes scanning the sidewalks and the scenery for any sign of Stan, but Richie keeps his eyes trained ahead of him and tries his best not to think about Stanley Uris, and the elephant in the room.

“Here,” says Eddie, nodding to a two-story building that Richie kinda recognizes—one of those indie outfits, he thinks, churning out what they think are hard-hitting documentaries. Probably they’re doing something about bald eagles being on the endangered list or something, that seems like the kind of suitably tragic thing indie documentarians would eat right up, and it’s a reason to hire Stan. “Just drop me off, and go do—whatever you need to do, here. It’ll probably take a while.”

“Haven’t got anything to do today but write,” says Richie. “So basically I have nothing to do today.”

“You lazy ass,” says Eddie, fondly. He unbuckles his seatbelt, opens the car door, and says, “I’ll call when we’re done.”

Richie leaves Eddie there, walking into the studio, and drives aimlessly around for a time, looking around for a free parking spot near a restaurant or a bookstore. Either’s fine, really.

He spots the sign out in front of a Barnes & Noble: _Signed Editions of New Denbrough Novel Now In Stock_ , in neon-red letters made to look as though they’re dripping blood. Underneath them is a cover, featuring a full moon and a howling wolf. _When the Wolf Came to Stay,_ reads the appropriately spooky title, and below it is the author’s name: William Denbrough. Richie’s heard a little bit about him—some reclusive author in Maine who’s never left the state, but writes some spine-chilling shit. Ridiculously good shit, from what he’s heard, with endings that haunt you long after finishing the book.

Oh, there’s a parking spot just out in front. Richie pulls up there, easing his car in between two others with only some difficulty, then stepping out and pushing the door closed. Signed editions, huh? He’s never bought a Denbrough novel before, but hey, there’s a first time for everything, and Richie does like a good horror novel.

He pushes the door open and beelines over to the display with the wolf-and-moon cover prominently displayed. A few other Denbrough novels are in the mix, shit like _11/22/63_ , _Stay Frosty_ and _Shark Puppy: Tale of a Rock Band_ scattered around a fuckload of copies of _When the Wolf Came to Stay_ , and Richie picks up _11/22/63_ and turns it over to read the back blurb. Then he skims through the pages, reading a paragraph or two at a time.

_“They call me Arthur Murray, I’m from Miz-OOO-ri,” Richie said. He also looked pleased._

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Richie says, out loud, startling at the sight of his own fucking name emblazoned in print, in a novel about _time travel_. He skips back a page or two or four, and reads the date the scene’s set in to himself.

Then he relaxes. Can’t be him. Sure, the glasses were mentioned, and sure, the sense of humor’s nearly the same—he just keeps the politically-incorrect Voices out of the public eye now—but this scene was set in the good ol’ _sixties_. Must just be some name Denbrough pulled out of a hat, and it’s highly likely he didn’t feel like calling his character _Dick_ , of all things. So Richie it had to be, instead. It’s just some wild coincidence, that’s all. Richie from the ditchie’s got nothing to do with Richie Tozier, LA-based writer and washed-out ex-standup comedian, nosirree.

He reads through the whole scene then, out of a sense of, fine, of morbid fascination. Denbrough writes his Richie with a fast mouth and impressions out the ass, which Richie, here and now in a B&N in LA, can sympathize with. He can _sense_ the narrator growing exasperated with the kid, but fondly so. Weird. In Richie’s experience, most people just get exasperated, but there’s a strangely sweet note of—kindness, in how the narrator talks about the kid. Like he gets it, as much as he possibly can.

And this Beverly, Bevvie from the levee, that the fictional Richie is dancing with…

 _I do love you,_ comes the thought, a stray thing that zings across the forefront of his mind like a bullet over his head. But he blinks, and the thought has slipped away.

( _No, here, you g-guys, w-w-watch me. And don’t s-suh-slow the record d-d-down so mmm-muh-much while I’m showing you!_ )

He closes the book, and puts it down for a moment. Then he picks it back up again, and flips to the very end, the very back of it, to see William Denbrough’s face printed in black and white.

Only there’s no photograph, just a bio that explains Denbrough’s career as a writer and an illustrator: how he got started, his best novels, where else he’s appeared. Then it goes on to state that he lives in Maine and doesn’t plan to leave any time soon.

With a sigh, Richie flips back to the very beginning, before the dedication page catches his eye.

 _To the Losers,_ it reads. _To Georgie. I miss you all._

\--

**eduardo 🍆❤️**

_**Today** , 3:28 PM_  
Stan says hi and he missed you but he gets it.  
hey where are you right now anyway?

shit sorry!

got caught up reading some really good shit and lost track of time.

i can come get you right now.

no, don’t worry about it  
I’ll come to you this time  
where are you?

barnes&noble.

oh yeah I know where that is!

great because i actually have no fucking clue.

just wandered around for a parking spot near a café when i found it.

stay there and do not fucking move  
btw is there a café there?

yeah there is!

want me to get something for you?

just a latte  
I’ll order the rest.

one latte coming right up for eddie spaghetti!

if you make them call me that in a fucking Barnes & Noble I will not be held responsible for where I stick my fork, asshole.

so long as it’s not in the groin area i will accept your fork for the kinky foreplay it’s clearly meant to be.

dickhead  
I’ll be right there.

\--

The name on the side of the cup, when Eddie gets there, is a loopy, cheery _Eduardo_. So he knocks his ankle into Richie’s for that, when he sits down with his healthy sandwich.

“You get anything?” he asks.

Richie holds up two books, both by William Denbrough. “The werewolf one’s a signed edition,” he says, opening to the title page, where sure enough Denbrough’s signature is scrawled below the title in ballpoint pen. _Dear reader, thank you!_ says the note accompanying the signature, generically grateful. “Guy’s never left Maine in his life, if you can believe it.”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t you leave Maine?” Eddie says, frowning as he takes the other book, its cover the iconic picture of JFK and Jackie in their car in Dallas, just before Oswald alters the path of American history with a pull of the trigger.

“Who fucking knows?” Richie says, shrugging. “But he writes some fun shit. Ten books already and god knows how many short stories, I’m kinda pissed.”

“You too could have ten books and a fuckload of short stories,” says Eddie, “if you didn’t procrastinate so much.”

“Procrastination is a grand tradition for writers everywhere, Eddie,” Richie loftily says, taking a sip of his whipped-cream sugary monstrosity. It’s truly hideous. Eddie despairs of his boyfriend’s teeth, heart, liver, everything. “Denbrough’s just a fucking outlier.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, and knocks his ankle against Richie’s again. Keeps it there, this time, relishing this point of contact between them, hidden away out of sight under the table.

“So how was your meeting?” Richie asks.

Eddie blows across the surface of his latte to cool it down, then takes a sip, collecting his thoughts. It had been—strange, to say the least, talking to Stan, being able to recall details of his childhood with Stan in them and not much else beyond that. He remembers, a little, the pinched look on Stan’s face as another boy made tit jokes at him, the small smile when they were all ten and Eddie had successfully given his mother the slip so he could go hang with Stan at the synagogue.

 _I can’t remember much,_ he’d cautioned, and Stan had shrugged. _And Richie—well, he doesn’t want to._

 _I don’t blame him,_ Stan had said. _I don’t remember a lot of things very well either, and what I do remember is fuzzy. But I know at some point we do—something a little fucked up._ He’d smiled then, this wry, ironic thing. _Who’d want to remember that?_

Mostly, though, they had talked about things that they could remember: Eddie told Stan about his first marriage and how that had ended, delicately phrasing it so that it didn’t sound like a total shitshow, and how his career had been going so far. Stan told him about his accountancy firm, which was his true passion, and his wife Patty, who taught art classes to fifth-graders back in Atlanta, and his side hobby of narrating documentaries about birds. Sometimes he narrated documentaries about other subjects, but mostly birds, at first as favors to friends who had film school assignments to finish and then, when one of those friends screened a documentary he’d narrated at a film festival, as a part-time job. Stan had lucked right into the job and into a bit of fame, which, fine, Eddie’s a little jealous of.

“We caught each other up,” Eddie says, now, and tells Richie about how Stan’s life is going now. “So basically,” Eddie finishes, “he’s an accountant who just lucked into the narrator job.”

“Lucky fucking asshole,” says Richie, as envious as Eddie is. “I wrote spec scripts till my fingers bled and Stan just—has a cushy job fall right into his lap like that, and he’s doing it as a _sideline_? What the _fuck._ ”

Eddie, a veteran of countless auditions for countless shows, says, “Right?” He bites right into his sandwich, chews, swallows and says, “He wanted to know how you were doing.”

“And?”

“I told him,” says Eddie. “Not about—us, of course, but I told him you were the head writer for your own show? I was acting on it, and it was coming out soon.” Another bite, and as soon as he’s swallowed, he says, “He misses you, you know.”

Richie doesn’t say anything, just looks down at his horrifically sugary coffeestrosity and idly stirs the straw around.

“Well,” says Richie, after a moment. “Not a lot to miss about me, as a kid. I’m surprised.”

“Oh, come on,” says Eddie. “You must’ve been a cute kid.”

“I was a fucking terror,” says Richie, looking up now. “I was this—tiny bug-eyed terror who _couldn’t_ shut the fuck up if you put a gun to his balls and threatened to shoot them off.”

“You still can’t shut the fuck up,” Eddie says, “and I don’t care. Richie, sometimes I wish I could remember having known you when we were kids, because I keep thinking—you would’ve been the best fucking friend I ever had.” Must’ve been, although Eddie can’t for the life of him figure out why he would then forget Richie. “The _best_. You _get me_ better than most.”

“You would’ve gotten sick of me when we were kids,” Richie says. “Believe it or not, I have some _boundaries_ now.”

“Yeah, kinda don’t,” says Eddie, “but again, that doesn’t matter, because I wouldn’t have been sick of you.” He points at himself, says, “I was bullied so _hard_ when I was younger ‘cause I was a short pseudo-asthmatic fuck, and I remember—”

 _Missing you,_ thinks Eddie. _Feeling a hole in my heart where you were supposed to be. When you came into my life there was a place already carved out for you, and you think I’d be sick of you? You’d think I’d bar you from that part of me?_

“I would’ve fucking killed for a friend like you,” says Eddie, softly, grabbing hold of Richie’s hand. “Someone who didn’t treat me like I was fragile or like I was some lameass freak in the way. Someone who _knew_ I could take whatever shit he slung out at me. Someone like you.” He squeezes Richie’s hand again. “I think I missed you,” says Eddie, softly, “before we ever even met.”

Richie’s eyes have softened, fixed on him. “Oh,” he says.

“Yeah, oh,” says Eddie. “So don’t—don’t be so fucking hard on yourself as a kid, okay? We were all snot-nosed little shits back in the day, and there’s nobody else I would rather have been a shithead with than you.”

“And they say romance is dead,” Richie croaks.

“Oh, shut up,” says Eddie, fondly.

\--

On the same day that _Night Shift_ finally drops onto Netflix, the mutilated, rotting body of a high-school boy named Dennis Torrio, missing for a month, turns up in the Barrens of Derry. Unlike Bradley Trevor, this body goes unremarked upon, beyond an item in the newspaper and an obituary. Neither do the other bodies that start to turn up: a thirteen-year-old girl named Lisa Albrecht, a five-year-old boy named Dennis Cowan, a nine-year-old boy named Nathan Johnson. The most they get are mentions in the papers, and maybe a note in the police reports, if the police can be bothered.

Or, well.

There is someone, keeping watch. Bill Denbrough’s fingers hover over the phone near his writing desk, ready to dial the numbers he’s memorized by now, but each time something stalls him.

_It could be something else. Anything else. What if I call them back, and it turns out to just be your garden-variety serial killer?_

And he puts the phone back down, uneasy, scared. He’s been scared for twenty-seven years, sure, but not quite like this. Never quite like this, because if he calls them all back here to Derry—

He can’t guarantee they can all make it out of town alive.

But a week after _Night Shift_ drops (to rave reviews and epic fanfare, as he always knew Richie and Eddie would get for their show), the police scanner crackles to life. _All units be advised, there’s been a disturbance near the Canal Days fair at the Kenduskeag Bridge, possible 10-54, I repeat…_

“Shit,” says Bill, out loud.

\--

“Okay,” says Richie, anxiously fixing the lapels of his least casual jacket one more time, “how do I look? Not too ravished?”

“I only kissed you a little bit,” Eddie argues in a low voice, hurriedly slicking his hair back and poking his head out from backstage as much as he dares. The moderator for this panel is excitedly talking up the cast and crew of _Night Shift_ to the huge crowds that have turned out for WonderCon, and Eddie’s brain is kind of imploding a little at just how _many_ people there are.

“You two doing okay?” Veronica asks, nearly startling the shit out of them both. “We’re gonna be out in five minutes, she’s just got to remind the crowd not to be fuckin’ _weird_ first.”

“They can’t get that weird,” says Richie.

“Oh, trust me, they can and do,” says Eddie, straightening out his jacket hurriedly. “Okay, how do I look?”

“You look _great_ ,” says Richie. “I betcha you’re gonna knock them out fucking cold with how hot you are.”

“Four minutes!” someone calls from backstage. Eddie glances over just in time to see Manny making his way inside, hugging Max carefully, and Molly touching up Tracie’s makeup for the last time.

And then Richie’s phone goes off.

“Ah, fuck,” says Richie, “I gotta take this call.”

“Go,” says Eddie, encouragingly. “Just be back before the panel starts.”

So Richie goes, sliding his thumb across the screen to say, “Hello? Yeah, this is Richie Tozier, who’s this?” He’s swallowed up quickly by the rest of the cast, and Eddie leans against the wall, breathing in, then out. In, then out.

Two minutes later, his own phone rings. He frowns, then picks up. “Eddie Kaspbrak speaking,” he says.

And Bill Denbrough, on the other end of the line, takes a deep breath to steel himself for the moment he ruins his best friends’ lives, and says, “Hey, Eddie, it’s Bill. From Derry.”


End file.
